Ballad of Tunnels

I stand at the crossroads
and I look down each way.
One leads to discontent
and the other to dismay.
At the end of each path there’s silver,
but both are lined with lead.
And the complicated road signs
are getting to my head.

Each path is a tunnel
and the tunnels lead to fame
but the destination seems less sweet
when the journey’s plagued by pain.
And outside of the tunnels,
to make matters worse,
I grant the destination’s simpler,
but the journey’s less perverse.

Inside of the tunnels
the people are so proud
of their sheer superiority
and the wealth with which they’re endowed.
They talk about the abstract
and how the world should be run,
but with just an ounce of logic
their worldview comes undone.

Outside of the tunnels
they don’t think but feel.
They don’t fret about the abstract;
they enjoy what is real.
Outside of the tunnels
they know that we are blessed
to live in a world of such beauty,
so they appreciate its best.

I see the yellow of the sun above
and the blue of the sky.
I feel the wind on my face
as I look into the tunnel’s dark eye.
It peers back blandly and inside I hear a voice
calling me to join them;
they think I have no choice.
They believe that I belong with them
in a world that’s void of charm,
but I make my decision
and it’s much to their alarm.
For I can’t fight the intense desire,
as I marvel at the sun,
kindled by the fact that prestige
won’t compensate for fun,
to leave the tunnel where it is:
To turn, to hide, to run.