Of a Man

There was a man, who lived in a house.

The man was lonely, but then he saw his house,

and he was filled with compassion.

For he was not the one that built the house,

but he resided inside.

The man got up off the floor, and walked,

down the road

nowhere in-particular

with a stick, like a cane in his hand.

For the man saw, when he was youngest

and the world most grand.

So new, as the man looked at a tree,

he knew it to be great and mysterious.

Then he walked,

down the road,

no where in-particular

with a stick in his hand, like a tool.

For the man saw, himself, leaving his house.

He knew he resided there alone,

and he knew that he may return,

or he may away.

His pace quickened as he knew life was a journey,

taking him to somewhere, from somewhere.

Then he walked,

down the road,

no where in-particular,

with a stick, in his hand, like a crutch.

For the man saw, the flow of time.

and he knew, one day, he would have a cane.

much like the stick he now carried.

he took notice of his ease of step,

silently, he relaxes his eyes.

He thanks the one who built his house for his youth,

and puts a spring to his step.

And then he walks,

down the road,

no where in-particular

with a stick, like a cane in his hand.

for the man saw someone,

down the road.

The man came up to a women,

milking a cow by the side of the road.

the women saw the man,

stopped,

looked up, and asked,

"Where are you going?"

the man replied.

"Nowhere, for I have already arrived at my destination."

For the man saw the women, and knew that she was good.

then the man, the women, and the cow,

walked down the road.

No where in-particular,

hand in hand,

for the man saw his house,

and knew that he was good.