Travel

Travel

An old blind man

Traveled down a dusty, weary road

The brown dirt he kicked up, weak and pitiful,

Nearly melded with the sallow green grass,

Limp and unkempt

The Earth was dreary,

The sky held a thousand tears,

And the wind echoed of a thousand fears.

The man had traveled down this road before,

Young and proud,

A boastful, strutting peacock, a firecracking burst of a passion,

Yet now he is shrunken, feeble with age,

Walking back alongside the road with humility, and a little wisdom, and a great deal of grief.

The Earth pitied him, and did not weep.

He traveled along, as the memories tore at him,

Mad dogs that kept snapping and howling,

Shadows coalescing into demons, slamming into him,

Over and Over.

“Come back, come back to me.” He pleaded

The Earth pitied him, and did not weep.

Looking back at the miles and miles he had traveled,

He realized he had been asking the wrong question.

Not “Was it worth it?”

But “Was I worth it?”

Was I anchored as firmly as a tree in the ground?

Did I awaken a burning desire in your soul like the sun, like a match?

Did my gentle cradling lull to sleep, my sea?

Did I whisper the good, delicious things you’ve wanted to hear?

Was I worth your pain, your agony? Do you feel sore and lost without me?

Did I find you, as you have found me?

My existence is a tear dropped in an ocean,

I am nothing.

I know you’ve cried and laughed over it,

Your tears streaming from the reckless mirth that explodes upon your face,

But my dear, I’ve died over it,

So tell me now, was I worth it?