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…


Sonnet #2

Somewhere, the exotic bird chirps a song mundane
As foreign sails sit still and furled within the harbor’s bay
While on the wind the mystic chime wails to those astray,
And the waxing of the pearly moon is outshone by the rain.

Somewhere, the all-mighty king prepares his lavish feasts,
With scent of spices stirring swirling out above the streets –
Where happy people weep and dance beneath the summer skies
And every vibrant color is a reaper in disguise.

Yet Somewhere holds no home for those who share my creed;
For as every distant image can be nearby sought and seen
Soon all lies succumb to fact, and no mystery remains to glean,
And wonder ceases blossom – locked away within the seed.

Any joy that grows there will be twisted and obscene
For every flower, Somewhere, is nothing but a weed.