The End of the (Seven Bridges) Road

I think we all (of a certain age) dreamed of deciding

to go,

of following the stars

in the southern sky,

of being loved tame and being

loved wild,

of standing beneath the trees

in moss filtered moonlight.

I find trepidation in the hints of what

might lie beneath the shadows on that road.

Perhaps it is my tendency to

over think,

but what if we were to go,

what if we were to cross

the seventh bridge

and reach the end of the road

with the taste of honey

sweet on our tongues?

What if we never find it again,

or some other road

which calls the soul,

or another taste so sweet,

or stars so warm?

What if there was never

anything better,

or, perhaps more,

what if there was?