Map of Forgotten Paths

There is a map of might-have-beens,

Of roads not taken, sights not seen.

It charts the course of lost regrets,

The paths the heart cannot forget.

It hangs within a silent room,

Where shadows dance and memories loom.

Its parchment made of faded dreams,

Its ink from hope's remaining gleams.

The roads are made of silent tears,

The mountains of forgotten fears.

The oceans there are made of time,

That slowly flow like aging wine.

Some paths show love that went unsaid,

In threads of fragile, silver thread.

Some show the friends you let slip by,

Beneath a pale and questioning sky.

There lies the career you turned away,

Bright as the dawn of summer's day.

There rests the book you meant to write,

Still glowing in the soft map's light.

The cartographer is old and wise,

With understanding in her eyes.

She tends the map with gentle care,

And mends the roads that need repair.

"Most think this map is just of sorrow,"

She says, "But there's always tomorrow.

For every path still waiting here,

Might yet be traveled, far or near."

A visitor came just last night,

His eyes had lost their former light.

He pointed to a fading trail,

Of music that he'd let grow pale.

The cartographer just smiled and said,

"That path's not lost, it's just not tread.

The notes still wait within your soul,

To make your broken spirit whole."

She took his hand and placed it on

The route that he had thought was gone.

The path began to glow and burn,

Offering him a safe return.

For that's the secret of this chart

It maps the landscapes of the heart.

No road is ever truly lost,

No matter what the journey's cost.

So if you find your way grown dim,

And hope appears to become slim,

Remember that the paths remain,

To ease your heart of all its pain.

The map remembers what we miss,

And offers one more chance at bliss.

For every road that might have been,

Might yet be traveled once again.