Painted Black

The path I walk is murkier than waters deep
That paints black all it touches with outstretched fingers
Shrubbery lines the road in wayward clumps (to which I wonder should I seek?)
Sometimes sparsely, sometimes so that no end is in sight.
Never is it as clear as the rivers and lakes it takes me by.
Light and darkness remain indistinguishable, yet hardly the same
While tracing senseless circles I try to see through to the other side.

Along the way, snakes lie in wait, ready to attack,
Their poison like blood through my veins, twisting reality,
Turning what I know into lies and truths and pain, yet without them I'm stuck.
A sharp drop throws me back on track only to face such demons once again (with added knowledge to go on)
Questions of "why?", is the air I breathe, day in and day out
The answers evade me, every time, but one:
I am very much alone out here.

fin.