He keeps pushing a
broken wheelbarrow piled with regret
up an unforgiving mountain
past roadside shrines
whose deities have gone
on vacation.
He longs to return home
but there is no going back.
He can no longer
get there from here.
The more distance he covers
the further away he is
from his desired destination.
Kafka understood.
He abandoned pages
spilled from his notebook
marking a trail
but warning others
not to follow.
The dead are quiet now.
At peace
with a knowledge they did not seek.
The price of admission
was everything he owned.
All his needs, desires
traded for nothing
traded for everything
but what he really wanted.
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