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.

One foot in front of the other.
Days passed by.
Walking was said to be a spiritual practice which yielded many dividends. The replenishment of the soul and the connection to all around you. Pilgrimage to sacred sites, walking the labyrinth, meditation. Strolling, cavorting, frolicking or wandering. As we stretch our legs, we stretch our minds and souls.
Few philosophers and writers had ever penned the absolute, gut-wrenching torturous boredom of the walk as Ronnie James now experienced it.
Fifty-six bones, one hundred and twelve ligaments and seventy-six muscles of dull, throbbing pain.
Who could tell how long it had been? He had but only the tedious task of counting his steps to judge it by. He'd long ago lost all track.
Sauntering alone through the barren ocean of sand.
Indeed, Thoreau wrote that the word itself, "saunter," may have been derived from “sans terre.”
“Without land or a home,” murmured Ronnie.
With every step we take, we leave some ghost of ourselves behind,
He who sits motionless, watching life pass by through the window, may be the most awful vagrant of them all – but the saunterer is no more vagrant than the meandering river.
Days passed by.

Garner the relics of my shattered aura,
Unfetter me from the scaffolds of despair,
Frazzled by the quest of divinity,
My entity crumbles, segments scatter,
Marred is my spirit,
By the halitosis of demons that crowd my
mind,
Marooned in the island of pugnacious
beasts,
My faith dwindles, peace fritters away,
Fawn autumn leaves,
Blown by the gales to the kingdom of
solace,
Pity my soul, deride my existence
"Thee are nothing, but a fallible
saunterer, in the dynasty of abomination,
the reign of feigning fidelity."