Hemlocked Heart

What was it –
Who was I to scout my own way?
Directions lead nowhere as maps fade to gray.

The paths circle back to the start of the maze,
Criss crossed with the tracks of more driven days.

What was it –
Who was I to shout at the moon?
To beg for a calling, though a whisper would do

A path meant to walk down, clear, clean in starlight
Leading me gently, quickly, to predetermined sites. 

What was it –
Who was I to think life a set goal?
A fixed point cloaked in heather apart from turmoil

A destination, of some kind, to be placed on a map
To be charted and followed on a well worn path.