A Different Path
                                by Brian Emerson

                      It's time to go, to leave this place
                      A shadowy voice does cry.
                      But the voice belongs to me alone,
                      And still I wonder why.

                      The time is here upon me now
                      Like a weight, heavy pounding.
                      Or has it Lifted? Hard to tell
                      The Questions keep arising.

                      The unknown awaits, as it does
                      For foolish few who dare.

                      Is it foolishness?

                      Curiosity perhaps?

                      Or something I'm not aware.

                      For I am scared and poignant now
                      More than ever at present.
                      Tears cloud my eyes as pen meets paper,
                      And I hope for my ascent.

                      I leave behind what I comprehend
                      And even with all communication.
                      I know for now without doubt,
                      I drift, en route a new location.

                      But who's to say what shall pass
                      And what still lies ahead.
                      I only know that were I'm at,
                      I'll yearn 'till forever dead.

                      Yet for now the flame still burns inside
                      However daily dying.
                      To light the path less traveled by
                      In haste I'm already striding.

                      But am I running from that I cannot?

                      Escape from oneself is ever brief.
                      Before we are again confronted,
                      Hunting for relief.

                      Yet still I follow my perilous path
                      To wherever it might be leading.
                      And well it may, onto something new,
                      And strangely more inviting.

                      Or perhaps not . . .

                      But who's to know, not I as yet
                      The fate of anyone on this Earth,
                      I wouldn't like to bet.

                      For life can lead in many ways
                      Often now undesired.
                      Fate can deal a cruel hand sometimes,
                      But we play on, cold and tired.

                      And art is born of life

                      Hard, dejected and trodden.

                      Hence emerges exquisite beauty,
                      And some direction from the coffin.

                      Finding it is a difficult thing
                      Sometimes left without thought.
                      But time it ticks, and years they fly,
                      I'm sure it can't be bought.

                      So we search, as do I
                      For things that bring on the 'morrow.
                      The weak are those who don't pursue,
                      And languish in their sorrow.

                      Happiness is that I chase
                      And hope to find someday.
                      I'll count the means again I'm sure,

                      There is always another way . . .