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 Tamara Beryl Latham - The Poet

The Path Through Time

What path lies barren
near the weathered oak,
near the graveyard
where the old church stands,
whose organ music
filled the inner walls,
in days of old,
when people gathered there?

What rustic path
leads me to the cabin,
whose logs are aged
and laden with fresh snow,
whose battered door
still hangs with rusted nails,
whose lamppost stands
within a loose support?

What rock-strewn path
leads my feet to wander
through dreary, dusty halls,
and lifeless rooms,
where loosened planks
shriek the wind's outrage,
and cobwebs fill
such placid emptiness?

When life deals a blow
too great to bear,
I journey to this god-forsaken place,
consume the peace
within her hollow walls,
then drink the music
of a gentler time.

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