It's easy to call the path less used
The “special” route for the “exotic” some,
A defining aspect so proud they claim
That they must wear it on their face
And swear by it through their mouth.
This path was praised so long ago
That they had thought it was a forgotten gem.
“This makes us different, we’ll never be plain
So long as we stick to this trodden lane.”
The birds perch with hungry eyes,
The trees stand firm, boasting their strength,
The bushes huddle viciously to the rough ground,
The the vines intertwine their lacing stems,
and they wait.
A newcomer approaches the bend
His hand firmly grasping the mighty sword,
He stands at the inviting entrance of the path
but he fears that if he goes down it, he’ll never come back.
He turns away from the beaten path,
and with sword in hand he hacks
slays
slices
cuts
hammers
tears
carves
shaves
severs
Until suddenly, sword in hand
He had created his own path.
And the birds, trees, bushes, and vines
Recoiled back and sat respectfully at its sides.
And with each new day, came a new newcomer
And upon seeing that freshly made path
Decided that they too would use their swords
And flay away the resilient brush
Until the bend became a corridor
With countless rooms on either side
Trailing off into lands unknown but known only by few.
Still many to this day enter that first path,
claiming that it was unique to revisit that which was there first
but he knew, there was nothing more extraordinary
than to make something entirely out of nothing
and command the respect of those who were so rigid.
The man sat at the end of his path
With so many branches leading off of it,
And thought just as every other sword wielder thought:
“I am so fortunate to have avoided a rhyme
because if I had taken that initial path
it would've taken all of my time.”
