traveler

What are you afraid of, sitting so quietly in the shadows that

light

does not seem to touch any aspect of you and only the frail heat
of your shivers registers as I pass by?

I?

I am merely passing here, a copper shell of a man, well on my way,
closing the contacts for a moment as I pass and feel the current
as it splits the electrons in my soul, fueling me, ruling me,
by the whims and wills of your random acts of sorrow.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow I will be but memory and legacy and
and a taste of oxides like a penny on your tongue.
But for now, I am a traveler.

I would and should like to linger for the night,
but I must stay to the light, ere I become fixed in place
and my face corrodes to a patina of grief.

Forever moving on.
Forever moving on.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.