A Path Poem by Robin Strand

I am what they call naive.
My will carried me south.
Into colder territories I went.
At first I was lost, and I couldn't face it.
Then I let go of all those who fear it.
It is as I knew, I knew before I came.
Yet every day the story is the same.
You can't be this or believe that.
All I ever heard was intentions.
Words about control, and fear, with a touch of good intention.
Or the other way around, it is all the same now.
Now I go north, against the stim.
Come with me, I'll gladly help out.
Mind you, it is a lonesome road-
One that attracts hatred.