Words can be cruel, they factor in a way that whips the skin in inner dealings,

Almost as if it formed in the faces of youth and those who claim as adults.

To be tortured of such rotten human natures and then given hope that slowly fades away.

There must be something that could change this girl's view of the world,

Oh...but atlas a man who speaks of two roads all too familiar to her.

Roads that diverge into a yellow wood and wanted wear,

The paths she would travel if it not for this discovery.  

A revelation that created the third road of individuality,

A road that she could make of her own without the darkness of a well traveled one.

Robert Frost was the one to enlighten her and it became the light of poetry,

A meaning that was given to her in the form of a gift.

A gift of someone who showed her that if two paths emerge,

The greatest one to travel is one less traveled by others.