Beaten Path. Poetry by Naseha

Song on my lips, dust on my boots, and dark night around me I take a moment;
A moment to look around as I travel the worlds unknown.
My Arabian horse – Lester, smiles at me in the light on the lantern, we are lost again
In the dense of the mossy thick forest, echoing with wing’s drone.

Genre: Rhyme, Reflective, Philosophical, Hope, Romantic

Beaten Path
by Naseha
http://www.naseha.world

Song on my lips, dust on my boots, and dark night around me I take a moment;
A moment to look around as I travel the worlds unknown.
My Arabian horse – Lester, smiles at me in the light on the lantern, we are lost again
In the dense of the mossy thick forest, echoing with wing’s drone.

The yellow parchment of my dog eared tanned leather bounded sweaty dairy;
Which I so lovely call my logs, is eagerly waiting for my ink and quill
The stars speak, the midnight has passed, I pack away the day,
As I decrease the flame, from my mouth, see the creeping wet chill

Lester is snoring; peaceful with the mossy air of forgotten foggy forest trail
After a month and half in desolated the parched land of dust
The spirit in me, forces me out of my cozy cottage filled with aroma of mushroom
To take on the paths not known, under star, sun, or fog, walk I must

Lester, my trench coat, my log, my quill as my companion, I travel to embrace
The mist of the height, the thirst of stark, the lead of unseen brook
The tame of terrain wild, the serenity of the rushing gale, warmth breath of trees
Old, knotty, patchy, all safely, frozen for eternity, in pages of my book

Off the beaten path, away from comfort of known souls, under the Canopus
On creaking, dry mattress of a thousand yellow, green, and red
Occasional ease of the stained bedding in a lonely Inn on a highway, lit by single lantern
I give in to the insanity in me, to find, to seek, on virgin gravels to tread

I close my eyes as I walk, to lose the known paths, in getting lost in terra incognita
Only then can I chance upon inebriation of charting the chartless in rife
Maybe with few silver coins in the pocket, no mansion to pass on, but richer by far
Lived a million lives with each unsung path, I chart in chronicles of my roving life

    * * * * *

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