Classic Poem

Where she steps a whir,
Like dust about her feet,
Follows after her
Down the dustless street.

Something struggles there:
The forces that contend
Violently as to where
Her pathway is to end.

Issues, like great hands, grip
And wrestle for her tread;
One would strive to trip,
And one would goad ahead.

Conflicting strengths in her
Grapple to guide her feet,
Raising an unclean whir,
Like dust, upon the street.