You enter the woods, <br />through that beaten path, <br />the sun is raining down, <br />giving the plant life a bath. <br /> <br />You continue walking through, <br />following the dirt trail, <br />creatures are lurking about, <br />and you just want to bail. <br /> <br />The path begins to end, <br />you attempt to make your own, <br />wanting to turn back, <br />after hearing that dreadful moan. <br /> <br />You feel like turning back, <br />yet feet keep moving forward, <br />you wish you hadn't picked the path, <br />which everyone has preferred. <br /> <br />Stamina's draining out, <br />like a jug of water turned upside down, <br />you finally reach a clearing, <br />which no one else has found. <br /> <br />Birds are chirping overhead, <br />like little angels in the sky, <br />no one else has been here, <br />of this I wonder why.<br /><br />Peter Cloutier<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-clearing-4/
