Poetry

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Like a drug; I'm compelled.
An index finger points the way.
The path covered in vagueness.
Only trust leads my day.

The forest is my storybook.
Few paths I've known.
Some are smooth and uneventful.
Some are treacherously bare.

Once a lesson completes.
And a short respite occurs.
The forest fairies find me.
And, another adventure is assured.

My feet are weary from twists and stones.
Tripping along the way.
But nonetheless, the spirits find me.
And again, I've nothing to say,

Excuses are lame.
Whining creates more.
So, quietly I proceed.
Wandering, the magic roads of lore.






Passing through the brush.
Carrying my satchel of prayers.
Perhaps I'll pass a man.
A man who relinquishes terrors.

And I'll look for him in the forest.
There, pray he shall find me.
Illuminate, our eyes will sparkle.
Then, my spirt shall be set free.






Bonnie Jennings
July 2013

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