Twisted, curled and straight.
Many of them reticulate.
Some are rough, some gloss.
And few of them crisscross.
Through mountains and canons.
Some desolate and barren.
Some through foliage unmown.
Ending of all is unknown.
Unalike yet all attract and allure.
With open arms tempt to explore.
Each path inviting like a whore.
Still another I search evermore.
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