Time passes by, cutting a swathe through worlds.
Empires fall, mountains crumble, and the San Andreas fault gapes open.
Bodies decay, graves sink into earth, the Sun glares down,
and the Moon creeps closer.
The Burning Man watches, silent, unmoved and present.

He stares at the world as it rusts over.
He walks its dead deserts, its barren oceans,
through the skeletons of buildings and over sagging highways.
He watches the vast dirt plains of the American metropolis,
and the dustbowl of Russia over the burial grounds of the Orient.

He is solitude, and does not wonder why.