I have, from time to time, heard this simple phrase:
“The road to hell is paved with good intentions.”
It’s always puzzled me. It seems illogical.
No, the road to hell isn’t paved at all.
It’s an old road, constructed when the first stars lit up the sky. It’s been here longer than us.
And we’ve used it. Many of us, over and over.
The road, once pristine, has seen the footprints of a billion souls.
And so, it’s cracked, withered, decayed. The dust, which was once cobbles, blown into the wind,
never seen again.
In fact, it’s not a road anymore.
Roads are strict, they instruct where to go.
But the road to hell is so distraught that it guides no more.
Loose stones are all about, and any semblance of a path is gone.
The empire has forgotten the road.
There is no surveyor coming. No highwaymen traveling horseback.
We’re on our own.
We’ll have to find our own way to hell.
Shorter poem this time, more emphasis on spacing.
