To 30

It’s hazy, vast, and dark – the route stretched out ahead.

As I peek through the mist, I dream a drop of dread.

Minced in stone behind me are marks of where I’ve tread –

tortuous, erratic – they’re meaning can’t be read.

Hopeful, my tired eyes seek a familiar thread,

indicating patterns to which I should be wed.

Realizing, before me, no warmth of comfort’s bed,

tentative, my toes tease toward the border’s spread.

Youthfully, I’m yearning to turn backward instead, but truthfully I know the past must now be shed.