Many a weary mile I've come along this road from yonder.
The longer I walk the older I get the more I sit and ponder.
These toils and traps and memories that collected upon my lap,
and all the things that fell between my sifting fingers clasp.
Still reside inside I feel them within the atmosphere.
be it sweet and clear like breathing in the freshest mountain air,
or polluted by the cars sloshing slush upon my kicks.
I march to my own beat, the footsteps time the script.
My heart's pulse booms through never-ending bloodlines,
from me to eons passed and millennia undefined.
Stomping through this life on a muddy ball of rock,
where the bones of our grandfathers have not had time to rot.
Someday I will be a memory in someone's else's hand,
to fall right through their fingers, like finely drifting sand.