The wanderers are walking
The path of unknown.
They're hoping for wishes and wishing for hope
Praying for miracles to help them cope.
But the wind is blowing,
And the rain is falling,
No miracles ever come
On this dark old desolate road.

Many have journeyed,
Few have survived
To tell the stories and the lies.
They all know this,
But still they go, wistfully thinking
That they will be the one.
So they silently steadily stay
Upon this dark old desolate road.

Why is it that everyone must go
To places that they can't?
To see the bitter beauty of the desolate
And the light of the dreary dark.
And upon the path of less traveled
Where people seldom return.
They all are fools but still they follow,
That dark old desolate road.

I am not here I've lost my mind.
Somewhere in the realms of time.
With vacant eyes and empty soul,
I survive on bread alone.
Drowning in my calls for help
Choking on a stuttered yelp
I reach my hand out to be saved.
Praying my faith won't be in vain.

Crowded by the cacophonous concourse,
My inhalation abducted by intruders.
But I am abandoned, deserted, forsaken,
Encompassed but forlorn.
And my piece of mind
Has always been at war.

For what is this life,
In which we wear
Our prolonged finality,
These bonds of our
Inevitable destiny,
With grace?

She was poetry,
And she was beautiful.

With her eyes
Filled with metaphors.

And the secrets
And similes
In her smile.

Her personified hair,
The adjectival laugh,
The imagery in her hands.

Liaisons between
Her eloquent feet
And the soil.

She is poetry,
And she is beautiful.

You're neither awake,
Nor are you asleep.
In that moment,
Before dreams get deep.
When your thoughts,
Run wild and free,
When you have all,
But liberty.
For all was quiet
During the day,
But now the voices
Come out to play.