Poem for a Necklace

by Ben

  Ancestral incogitant sprouts the plant of decision
Which has led me and countless others to the door of truth.
They knock upon its grainy thickness, their knuckles blood soaked,
The weary travelers of a never ending journey they are
And will forever be. For when they began their journey
The clouds were light and the night was a mixture of all great things
but now They are one in the same,
Neither one the opposite of the other
Humming, biting, tearing the traveler
As he doomed to walk through it.

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