Where the Wild Roads Lead

The earth hums beneath my feet,

soft and restless, stitched with roots

that grip and stretch toward something unseen.

The air is thick with the scent of rain,

a promise tangled in the breeze.

Somewhere beyond the bend, the river calls,

its silver hands threading through stone,

carving a path without regret—

never turning, never pausing,

only moving forward, unshaken.

But I hesitate.

The past lingers like mist on my skin,

cool, familiar, begging to be held.

Memories press against my ribs,

a chorus of voices, faces, ghosts—

what if I look back just once?

Then—a break in the clouds.

Light spills through the tangled branches,

golden, weightless, pulling me onward.

The river does not wait.

The wind does not ask.

And so, neither will I.

I step forward,

not knowing where the wild roads lead,

only that they do.