Disclaimer: The poem’s mine. No one else’s. That’s all.

Author’s Note: A weird poem; reminiscent of the Trail of Tears, I suppose. Told from a prisoner’s POV – but it can be everyone.

Winding and weavy this trail is,

dirt trodden from a hundred years’ trekking

through winter, spring, summer, fall –

leaving footprints

imprints of a human being

of who they once were

of what they once did

of what they once felt

on the grass

and the ground

Where’s this trail leading us?

Where is it taking us?

Where does it want to lead us, for that matter?

Where does it want to take us?

What does it want us to do once we reach that place?

Trees rustle softly

the wind whistles innocently

like a mischievous child who’s pretending to be angelic

Bursts of wind blast in our faces

stinging us

like a bee’s stings

or like a heart breaking of sorrow.

Onwards, we’re urged

Don’t stop

We stop for a moment

to catch our breath

looking where we’re going

wondering where we’re being lead to

when we find out then

that it’s leading us to nowhere.

So it’s true, I thought,

looking at the white men’s town

with vague, hidden disgust

The road to nowhere

leads to nothing.