The Haunts of the Past

Here is a road that I have traveled before;
it looks quite familiar, but I can not remember
which way I had taken the last time I passed.
Was it right? Or was it left? Or perhaps in-between?
Maybe left and three-quarters- but maybe not so.

Here is a road that I have traveled before;
so many choices that I do not think that I had
considered when last I showed up on this same ground.
Perhaps I ought to retrace my steps; or perhaps I should
simply let my gut feeling lead, for it always knows where to go.

Here is a road that I have traveled before;
all its paths seem familiar, but I can not recall from where.
Whence did this memory come surging through my nerves?
Is it a primal instinct that has been bred into my very make up,
or was it impressed upon me as a young, curious child?

Here is a road that I have traveled before;
the leaves of one branch's trees call me softly to join them
underneath their whispering susurrant embrace that
promises to keep me always warm and comfortable while
I yet stay within their easy, cushioned, sunny cradle.

Here is a road that I have traveled before;
another path's mysterious silver lining echoes chants
and welcoming calls that lie faint, yet pleasant, on my cocked
and listening ear. The thick fog does not deter me from considering this;
indeed, it seems to drape most gracefully like lace upon a lady's dress.

Here is a road that I have traveled before;
a third path beckons with fingers like gossamer, almost leading
me along without my notice toward its smoothly undulating lane, like
the ocean, that endless avenue with no marked lines or boundaries
save for the ever-eroding land that will eventually sink beneath its waves.

Here is a road that I have traveled before;
there seems no place to go that does not hold something
just out of reach, barely out of sight, that nags at my mind, reels me in
like so many fish hooked on a line. Yet I am a fish that has fallen
to the lines of three, and must let go of two or be torn into useless ribbons.