The Traveler

The Traveler My wide path grew narrow- still And rushing it's gate , an Autumn's chill, Intruding through patches of torn cloth that turned to flaccid frills. Above me,a misty veil Hung its somber vapor tale- Inviting weariness to prevail Upon once bright vision-to pale The bush ,the leaves in silence stood A reminder of a greener wood Brandishing all they could On their vests of golden palettes . As life is to death and death is to life And all is understood . In solemn silence the towers hide Behind a distant tapestry Yet they are the lighthouse , The way home.