Pulse, storm, and crazy path,
Trudging through dale and furrowed skies.
Making sense of matter and earth,
Nowhere to see the doves and laugh.

On walk to apex of farmer's field,
The darkened crows do cry for gold.
Take not my heart and soul to steal,
These things I must not ever yield.

To see a tunnel is to find relief,
And passing through discover road back west.
Absorbing confident strides on Tarmac,
I press on, thinking, and find belief.

In view beyond my journeys end,
The church, the shop, the covered pen.
It takes the will, and grip from me,
To manage the steps back home and free.