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The Forlorn Traveller

Updated on July 2, 2016

Night is old and about to wither

Sun threatens to slay polygamous Darkness

And send a-scatter the evil spouses he harbours

Silhouette against the confusion

The Forlorn traveler stands

A-top the aged brows of sands that kiss the clouds

A last glance over his shoulder

A Village, a shadow in the distance

A shadow in a past to come

Where Happiness evades him and leaves him for dead

Aurora at last sucks her thumb in sleep

Sun wins the struggle

And shouts wordless, Victory!

With smiles that gild the earth

And wash The Forlorn Traveler’s body in gold

Touched by that foolish king

Who drools for things that glitter

The shout of victory bounces off his skin

His heart still pounds cold, slow

No honey here!

A-Woman-At-A-Door screams in his head

Dust for shoes

Feet of Steel, to defy the teeth of the earth

Shirts with pockets many

The maker will shake his head

I did not do those, he will say

A step and another

Another and again for many a day

What! No rainbow in the greens to bring a cheer

What! No twitter in the land, no chirp

Traveler, blind, deaf but with eyes un-misted, ears un-stoppered

Aged Night again withers

Aurora again to bed she goes

Sun rises from a sleep deep

And splashes Earth with a painter’s oil

Silhouette against the blazing light

The Forlorn traveler squats

Between the breasts of rocks that caress the skies

The painter’s oil touches not his skin

The pockets in his shirts are fewer, but larger

The maker will shake his head, twice

I did not do that, he will say, twice

Steel weeps painful tears of wine

Shoes grow newer with age

A crawl and another

Another and again for many a day

No honey here!

A-Woman-At-A-Door screams in his head


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