The road ahead has lost its name,
No signpost, marker, familiar frame.
The trees have thickened, tall and blind,
And daylight is a thing left behind.
But in your hand, a lantern glows,
A small, persistent flame that knows
It was not made to light the mile,
But just enough to walk a while.
One step, then two — the path appears,
Not carved from certainty, but fears
That learned to walk instead of freeze,
That chose the dark above their knees.
And when you finally reach the dawn,
You’ll see the lantern still burns on.
Not because the dark has passed,
But because your light was built to last.
Author’s Note
We often wait for clarity before we’re willing to take the next step. We want to see the full road before we start walking. But most of the time, life only gives us enough light for the step we’re on. This poem is about trusting that small flame — your faith, your instinct, your refusal to quit — and walking forward anyway.
