On the Path

'The truth of the heart is that it all ends',
the voice of a sage came quietly.
Or was it your own thoughts, locked far within yourself,
the childish need to affect rebellion
against an unfair scheme of life where all that lives will die
without a resurrection soon to grace?
 
The barn is empty, lashed by wind, and swaddled in blackness.
You sit inside and I come looking for you there,
to sit beside you in the cold and talk astrology, science,
belief, and other silhouettes that dance on hay bales.
We are two stalks of straw ourselves,
across the firmament carried.
 
All that remains is knowing that, somewhere in ancient history,
two bipeds stand above a grave to which they have consigned
a loved child. The mother weeps, the father comforts her,
a human quality blossoms, a while on the path.