Lucid Symmetry Poem by Rod M.Peters

Yes, at the end of the long journey
After the last breath was spent,
Pushing aside the branches that barely
Allowed a glimpse of a faint light far off,
I headed towards the thicket of brick chimneys,
Towards the polygon-shaped turrets
And the wooden porches in quiet dusk
To swing the heavy bronze knocker, and yes,
The doors were flung wide open and I welcomed
With a warm smile, in Victorian halls
With sober, high coffered ceilings.
Terse hands did wash the dust clumped
Over the dried blood on my feet,
My tattered clothes replaced by
A washed linen robe
And a bed of clean sheets received
My battered body, like a warm lap.
Yes, an affable, familiar-looking face,
Hair tucked underneath a starched nursing cap
Made it known to me that I could rest there,
That my strength would return, just as sure as
The certainty that all roads lead to crossroads:
Ways ever multiplying, never subtracting.
Yes, there I slept the first restoring slumber,
And I have awoken with wing-stubs
Sprouting from my shoulders.
And I've been told that my feet need not be gashed
Anymore, by the jagged-stone road,
Nor should my steps stir the age-old dust,
Unless I feel the urge to fill my lungs
With the scent of the honey grass by the roadside.
Yes, I have learned that there are also hospitals
And arms ready to wrap around wearied shoulders
Assailed by the hail-storms of Time, there,
Where life's beaten-path appears to wind down,
And nurses with my mother's face
Eager to let me know that all wounds
Carry an expiration date
And that alone my desire to bind myself
To the familiar path and re-tread the known ground
Will keep the gashes open,
Suppurating barbed fish-hooks.
Yes, I have seen it's no metaphor, the lucid symmetry,
That as above, so below.