the map is not the place

life passes in our search for some small pleasure
we get it at a price and the amount we pay
is never received back in due and proper measure
the tolls extract our fortunes on the way
uphill and down the path of life meanders
there's no escape from travails of the trip
though each of us in our own manner wanders
we never seem our rightful route to grip
the intentions and the plans are nothing certain
we're not assured of water in the wells
the rain that comes upon us like a curtain
hides each from each as though we were in cells
the journey's its own purpose we are told
but always others bear away the gold