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.

It's too vivid for a dream
I saw my death, walking cold
Upon my grave, beneath the fold.
I haven't yet seen the best of me;
Now, my emotions have gone gray,
And doubt is all that's left to say.

I live in rhythm, seeking redemption,
Knowledge, and freedom from this mortal tension.
Is death the end, or does it start
The journey to cultivate the immortality
I hold no thread to reality
For now, I am dead, yet I still see me.

Will my memories remain or fade,
As I walk the line 'twixt light and shade?
Between life and death,
Wondering what lies ahead.