Driveway

I go up a driveway to a house made of bricks,

Or to one made of threads,

Or to one made of sticks,

For this driveway diverges to all sorts of ends.

With bends far and near;

To the house of faith, from the mountain of time,

To my grave - which on all horizons does appear.

Oh Lady Truth, so foul and rarely sublime.

For your hands are but talons,

And your mouth speaks of evils,

And your nostrils are canons,

And your eyes are but needles.

Yet I welcome you home,

With my arms and my heart,

At dawn, dusk, or gloam,

No matter what you impart.

For as hideous as you be,

Ignorance is far worse,

Likewise to disease is he, 

And thus you are the nurse.

So carry me home,

Wherever that be,

Let us go through your path and not roam,

For time is not free!

Yes! The now is too urgent,

So let’s not adhere,

Against time I’m insurgent,

But fate’s my frontier.

For all paths take me there,

To an ending so near,

I can hope to avoid what I think is unfair,

As I carry on weary, but with you, without fear.