It's easy to call the path less used

The “special” route for the “exotic” some,

A defining aspect so proud they claim

That they must wear it on their face

And swear by it through their mouth.

This path was praised so long ago

That they had thought it was a forgotten gem.

“This makes us different, we’ll never be plain

So long as we stick to this trodden lane.”

The birds perch with hungry eyes,

The trees stand firm, boasting their strength,

The bushes huddle viciously to the rough ground,

The the vines intertwine their lacing stems,

and they wait.

A newcomer approaches the bend

His hand firmly grasping the mighty sword,

He stands at the inviting entrance of the path

but he fears that if he goes down it, he’ll never come back.

He turns away from the beaten path,

and with sword in hand he hacks

slays

slices

cuts

hammers

tears

carves

shaves

severs

Until suddenly, sword in hand

He had created his own path.

And the birds, trees, bushes, and vines

Recoiled back and sat respectfully at its sides.

And with each new day, came a new newcomer

And upon seeing that freshly made path

Decided that they too would use their swords

And flay away the resilient brush

Until the bend became a corridor

With countless rooms on either side

Trailing off into lands unknown but known only by few.

Still many to this day enter that first path,

claiming that it was unique to revisit that which was there first

but he knew, there was nothing more extraordinary

than to make something entirely out of nothing

and command the respect of those who were so rigid.

The man sat at the end of his path

With so many branches leading off of it,

And thought just as every other sword wielder thought:

“I am so fortunate to have avoided a rhyme

because if I had taken that initial path

it would've taken all of my time.”