Along the path, walking so nervously

searching in the darkness for

some signs of footprints of

past persons plodding along in

a similar fashion to mine

The edge of the trail is

more of a fading off and

a splitting at points that

makes me wonder if I

still remain on the trail or not

Stopping at the forks my

mind meanders down the trail a

ways until it fades of as

if it was a mistake or

as if another animal made it

But there seems to be a point

that you ask yourself if any

of these are trails at all but

just some patches of padded plants that

have been placed there as worldy dreams

Dreams of people ordering themselves

Dreams of reasons creating order

Dreams of ideas put in motion

Then I stop and realize that

this is just the way things happen and

trails can seem to be where only animals once

trolled about and wind softly

pressed plants into chasms and canyons

for us to attempt to

walk through

until we find the

end and

remember

their

order-

less-

ness