Tired in the bones of life,
every breath a sigh released,
the traveller journeys on,
no step, a stride decreased.

Mired in the wet sand,
footfall etched in memory,
only recollection’s path,
marks his lost trajectory.

Waymarks of a shadowed fate,
conspired against an open route,
a weary compass held, required,
to heed his map of doubt.

But though navigation end adjourned,
and passage studied slow,
this noble traveller, remains content
to tread the earth below.

This entry was posted on Friday, May 21st, 2004 at 8:19 pm and is filed under Age, Journeys.