The Traveler

In dreary spring the Traveler came
Through the sleet and through the rain
And in dim light he stopped to think:
“Is Fate my own, or penned in ink?
Of all the paths I’ve meant to stride,
So many trails I’ve left untried-
Is purpose bought with firstborn breath,
Or will my walk bring worthless death?”
The Traveler turned, then, to the road
And on and on he strode.

Over roaring hills the Traveler passed,
Through summer’s breath and burning blast-
His feet fell swift through rivers of glass
Over peaks of steel and crags of brass.
 Soles swung free as his mind was bound;
“Is life’s true meaning to ever be found?
Have all my days slipped by for naught?
Devoid of reason, futile and fraught?
And through all the turns my path will wend
Do I merely race to meet my end?”
The Traveler turned, then, to the road
And on and on he strode.

Under shimmering leaves the traveler strolled,
Through brazen reds and swirling gold-
Past whirring lights and blurring lines
Away from man’s confined designs
Yet still his thoughts would stray afield,
“Why will this question never yield?
My fate is all I’ve ever sought,
But answers are not cheaply bought-
Perhaps it’s drifting on the breeze,
Answers dwell in death’s surcease…”
The Traveler turned, then, to the road
And on and on he strode. 

In waning days the Traveler went,
Through fearsome frost which chilled and rent
Over glassy fields that claw at life,
In doubts and fear his mind was rife;
“Perhaps meaning is never found,
But traced behind the trails I’ve wound?”
The Traveler turned, then, to the road…

 

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