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Ever path has it's curves, twisting, turning endless curves,
How do we know we've chosen the right one for us?
We walk through hell itself, yet, in the end,
We have no burns,
We know we felt the savage flames,
Devouring not only our body, but also our mind,
Every path has it's stones,
Whether they be small or large,
They bruise our feet, through our soles,
They scar our flesh, young or old,
And in the end, all beaten up,
Our souls torn, our bodies aching,
We find, that there was always another path,
How come we never regret never going back?
Our destination is paradise,
And we always come, wounded.
-Ally