The beliefs of the masses

All these have become monuments
Roads always taken and have become so evident
All the while the masses believe that
On this obvious evidence
No one shall be lost no one shall have doubts
These structures of concrete
White paint and towers
There is no more fresh wind
That roam freely on my face
The birds have no more wings
The flowers do not bloom
Pavements smooth and sliding
It is not the road I am taking
I like this one. Grassy, muddy,
There are no footsteps yet
Except mine, I pass this way
I do not live here. I do not sleep here.
There are no certainties. This is the one.
Let me go then, let me kiss this holy ground.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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