He was a tragic story at eighteen.
Peering out of the door of his home,
with half of what could be fathomed as a life on his back,
he started his journey.
The Traveler,
he’s been to the peaks of the mountains
to the dangerously deep crevasses of canyons.
He’s almost died a… more than a few times.
He steps with a sort of sluggish mindset.
He doesn't need to move with what his teachers once called “purpose”
because he’s always on time.
With his life on his back
and large thoughts on his mind
he might throw out his hip,
moving too fast, like the young folks do.
These things never did stop him from gettin’ down,
his moves are new,
unlike his body.
Maybe that’s why he simply nods
when those young’uns challenge him.
He saves his money for things he absolutely needs,
pens, pencils, paper… and toilet paper occasionally.
The bag on his back is 40 pounds,
most of its contents is the words he had written.
Containing a few mementos from the land
of hot suns and early mornings,
he travels.
He doesn't grow hair on his sun kissed bald head,
at the moment,
guess it liked the south so much it stayed there.
He’s homeward bound today.
With an image of his beautiful baby in his wife’s hands
and a white picket fence in his mind,
he found himself at the same door he escaped at the age of eighteen.
He was a tragic story at eighteen.
Peering out of the door of his home,
His whole life on his back now
he’s ended his journey.
Now he’s home,
and so is his hair.