I see him every night,
Walking, pacing, strolling.
Right outside my window,
Never seeming to have a purpose.
Just an old Saunterer,
Walking in the night.
I've tried to talk to him,
But each time I cannot seem to reach him.
He is a mirage on a desert road in the summer,
Always staying the same distance from me.
He doesn't talk, only walks,
His footsteps haunt my dreams.
His memories are all i see,
His life is what I live as I sleep.
My street has become his resting place,
My brain, where he manifests himself to me.
I have become his safe haven,
As he is mine.
He cannot speak,
Thus we communicate through the pictures in our heads.
Sharing stories, jokes, experiences.
We teach eachother things,
He has taught me about the old world.
How cruel it was,
I have only taught him how it is still much the same.
The late night Saunterer is now my friend,
He is so sweet and caring.
He always seems to ask how I'm doing.
I didn't know I could be so similar to a man who never talks, Only walks,
I feel as if he is a reflection of me.
Or maybe of what I wish to be.
Suddenly, as if cold rain hit my face,
I am revived from a trance.
I realize the late night Saunterer is a sweet old man,
He is the spirit of the future me.
Thought of a story, tried to put it into poem form.
Any advice would be greatly appreciated.