There is a never ending forcast of doom.
It circles around us,
silently reminding us that every day
may be our last,
That the road we travel is certainly lonely,
When I am sent on a shadowed detour
in moments like this,
through the damp, winding roads of a park,
with the same cars surrounding me all the time,
that I remember, in somber fright,
where it all began.
Grant that I may not judge my niegbor until I have walked a mile in his moccasians
Native American prayer