The branching path cuts through the trees
Masked by the shimm’ring moonlit haze.
The fog hangs dank and thick to breathe
No wind to clear the air for days.

Upon the path there stands a girl,
Her eyes as green as forest moss
Surrounded by the liquid pearl
They gaze ahead with sorrowed loss.

A painful memory they hold,
One which it hurts for her to speak,
Rooted deep in recesses old
A different course she wants to seek.

But on the other path she’ll find
The road is straight, well cleared and swept
A wagon’s way with slight incline
Few paths before were better kept.

But on this ideal route she knew,
Her one true self would have to resign.
The clear-cut path would lead her through
The life of another’s design.

Unmercifully her true path calls
At the end her heart’s only true home
The place where she’ll stand proud and tall
Where she is free to dance and roam.

But she knows she has to face it –
All she’d placed on the highest shelf.
The past must be seen and tasted,
Be declared as a part of herself.

Once again she’ll have to suffer
The pain and weakness of disease,
Accept the grief it brings her mother.
How long this time ‘til it will cease?

She waits for the answer to fall
From the trees hanging high overhead
Hopes that light shows a hidden course
Or the path may be safer to tread.

The options two are plainly drawn
But still no easy answer comes.
A reply cannot be simply born.
She stands there waiting, lost and dumb.