Sun leathered skin drapes nobly over the lean arms and gangly legs of our traveller as he sits pensively overlooking his rippling blue fields.
His once-fitting hang over his frame letting the late-summer early-autumn breath through.
It is golden season and soon lady Autumn will light fire to the leaves
setting them ablaze red and orange until finally burning and falling to the ground.
He looks at the city: a smouldering white pile of ashes on the horizon.
Runners fly past with their hair swishing
Cars gallop, hungry consuming the concrete band .
Birds cruise on the breath of God and spread out on a shelf of air.
The world runs mechanically around, with him underneath.
Spinning at the same ancient pace, as he gazes in wonder from a different stratosphere.
**Too many voices! Crying out at him from disolate mountain tops.
Ringing once bright but then scattering to nothing like sand in the wind**
He sits at the bottom of a heavy ocean with all the weight on his mis-incarnated soul.
Letting the currents pass over him. Hoping one day a swell will pick him up and let him wash up on assure with playful waves lapping at his feet and the stark morning sun forcing him at arise
So he sits; drinking in life and sun.
At a stage of agitated peace.
Rising and wondering... If that tin of spaghetti is still in his current abode.