A Path Too Worn

Days of sadness, days of grief,
A winding road with no relief,
What lies ahead, a damaged way,
Where many feet have gone astray.

Too frequently it's trod in haste,
In search of solace, oft misplaced;
Yet on we walk, despite the strain,
Each step repeating old refrain.

If only there were other trails
Where lighter hearts might leave their tales,
But here we find our heavy course
And trudge with sorrow's silent force.

This road we tread, so well-worn, plain–
It leaves a mark, a quiet stain.
For all its weight, its lack of grace,
It shapes our steps, our will, our place.