I walked down my solitary hill,
Into the city and its monotonous mills.
Into the quiet night,
I reached my door divine.
The door to what was once my paradise,
But now hope slipped like black ice.
All roads lead home,
It is just a romantic hope.
I looked over at my untouched chair,
And found myself lying over there.
The dilapidated house did once again transform ,
As if welcoming me with open arms.
Not a soul was in sight,
But the one I had to fight.
Crying is easy, but it is hard to hope.
Maybe, all roads lead home.
* This was written a long time ago , but I see the meaning now. Self fulfilling prophecies?*