the compass is confused

at sunset the trees seem to enclose
to bear a menace not a sign of hope
the way is long and open not to those
who travel weary holding to life's rope

the marks of time are now seen in the wood
leaves red brown gold falling to dirt
the season turns and what we thought should
bring healing now seems to bring hurt

the farther on the longer the road seems
the asphalt turns to gravel then to clay
we move as if the path were one of dreams
and not another normal human way

the day is ending let the next one come
the march continues to another drum