Glades and Creeks.

One day in a journey far far away,  the forest was speaking to a lone wanderer.
"I am quite the clean forest, am I not?." The forest whispered soothingly.
"Mmhm." Spoke the wanderer, passive by such an interjection.
"Of course. Thousands of forests have wilted and died under the hand of man. I remain lush and brimming to the birch with life."
"Where is my way out of here?" The wanderer asked, becoming quite needy at the thought of having to spend the night in that dung-infested greenhouse.

The forests name was Evergreen. Allot of forests were named Evergreen. This forest had just been sold cheaply to a large logging firm who would come and tear the ugly trees down. The proprietors of that sale was a tribe of Indians. The specific agent who devised and contracted the sale was named Nahiko. An Indian tribesmen who, like his ancestors could speak to the forest.

Indians were what Europeans called people from India and natives of America. Allot of Indians in America were killed for being Indian. When an Indian boy came of age, they would be thrown into a jungle and starve until they saw an animal spirit. This was probably prelude to eating said spirit animal while thanking it for helping him live on.

"I, Evergreen implore you to stay within my womb of plant and fauna."
"Hm." replied the wanderer. Not wanting to argue.
The wanderer took a seat beside a flowing creek on a rock. The creek lead up to waterfall, which in turn lead through a river that spanned for miles. The river did not speak as it was an extension of the forest, Evergreen. Down the creek was the old homes of the Indian tribe.
"Have you ever saved someone else?" The wanderer asked.
"My yes, of course. Everyone who is to enter without water or food is rescued by my charming animals! And luxurious streams. I am quite hospitable you see. There was a tribe who lived within me, they were by name called the Perchil tribe. But they had to leave for more. Hmph. As if anything up in that ****** town is worth more then me."

Further up the river, away from the forest was a town named "Milan". It was named after a kingdom of the same name in Italy. People in Milan spoke German. This was odd given Milan lay in south America, but not unusual given its history of being a port to German slave traders who came from a German colony called "Tanganyika" in Africa. The town was named Milan because the Germans wanted to appear more Italian. This desire was apparent in their most famous dishes "schnitzel Pizza" and "Pasta Salsiccia". Pasta Salsiccia was pasta in a sausage casing often served with tomato sauce and mashed potatoes.

Perchil was also a member of that Indian tribe. He was Nahiko's brother and had a family of his own. Perchil was born in Evergreen and educated in Milan. He had been fighting with Nahiko over the terms of sale of the forest. Nahiko had wanted to preserve the land of old tribe. Perchil was already drawing up plans to sell it to an oil foundry. Their land happened to be on top of a great oil reserve. That means allot of animals lived and died on that land millions or thousands of years ago. There body would dissolve into a black gooey liquid used to fuel heavy machinery. This machinery is used by logging firms to cut down not exclusively, forests named Evergreen.

The wanderer, feeling awkward asked. "So, you'd rather not want to be destroyed?"
"Oh, I am a forest and I do maintain a will of my own and wants. But I cannot rather things should be anything other than what they are. The world is a destructive place. It is disrespectful of its former home and ancestry. I know this. I have tried however, to ward off the workmen by scaring them with my animals. In the end I shall become a town or a shopping mall."
In 3 years time, the deed to "Evergreen plains, Milan" would be sold and used to build a shopping mall named aptly "Evergreen Mall". And the forests voice would be spoke out of loudspeakers, but in the form of either a pre-recorded message or announcement about a lost child. Nahiko and Perchil would be married in Evergreen Mall. Nahiko three times.

"Oh woe is me, I lament my lost brothers and sister forests who are no longer beaming and prideful of their enormous trees and crested riverbanks."
"Maybe they should have defended themselves better." The wanderer spoke, trying unsuccessfully to show concern.
"Well, I for one will never give up fighting the man!"
"Good for you." The wanderer then ate his lunch.

Three days from now, the forest would stop speaking to anyone who arrived within its borders and see the lone wanderer again. But this time, he would be protected by four glass windows inside a piece of machinery powered by black gooey liquid called a "harvester" which lifted up wood and cut it into easily transportable pieces.

"Do you, believe in god wanderer?" The forest asked, to strike up some conversation.
"I do believe in god. He's the reason I get up in the morning and assists me in supporting my family."
"I don't. I don't think I believe in god, wanderer. If he exists, how could he let something so beautiful as I and my brother and sister forests be turned into shopping malls and townships like Milan."
The evergreen forest had seen the name "Milan" as a city nearby on a poster which flew into the twig of its tree. The poster was now lying on smooth ground weighted down by a root, as so the forest can read it over and over again. The poster advertised Pasta Salsiccia at a local restaurant in Milan. It had appetizing pictures of Pizza with crumbed steak on it and Pasta filled Sausages.
"God once flooded the earth, destroying all forests and people for their misgivings. Maybe you misgave and people are your divine punishment."
The forest grew silent and whispered soft hymns of wind against the leaves and overgrown shrubbery.

The edge of the creek, where the wanderer sat on a rock had a hard sand that stretched out a few meters disappeared into the dirt. It was unusual to see a small bed of sand without any other visible placements of sand. The wanderer had been dumping it there, with permission from the forest so he could form a base to store his harvester. The forest did not know of the sands purpose, she thought it looked pretty.
"If I were god, the world would be nothing but forests!" Evergreen stated. The gentle words turning a harsher coarse crackling of branches.
"The world seems to be nothing but people right now. Maybe gods a man."
"Unlikely! If god was a man, he would certainly love forests enough to never cut them down."
"Hm." The wanderer was dissatisfied with this explanation, but didn't want to argue.

"Would you **** anyone who came into your forest, just to prove a point?" The wanderer asked, waiting pensively.
"Oh no, as I said. I cannot change what already is and certainly would not bloom the effort to try. Besides. I also know about those people and their weapons. When it comes to human beings, no matter how hard I fight they will always win. How they ever came to develop boom guns and ratatatat chainsaws I have no idea. If they came from my forest, people would certainly have never developed tools so cruel and menacing. But, I suppose Eden had her way for you. Even if it was, at the cost of all our kind."
"Yeah. No matter forest or person, people always win. I'll always be below some rich powerful man too." The wanderer felt melancholy for feeling unimportant. The forest felt the same melancholy for her life and the world.

Suddenly and finally, a noise came from the wanderers pants. He then picked out his phone, clicked it and took it to his ear. After two hours, the wanderer walked east and out of Evergreen forest. He visited her three days later in his noisy harvester. made to cut wood. He parked on his sand bed. The wanderer left his harvester and locked the door without a word. Evergreen forest was properly harvested of its trees in 3 years time. Never uttering a word or complaint. The painted marking on the harvester she saw everyday however, was her last thought as she disappeared. The word painted onto the door of the harvester, its operator. "Perchil."

I wandered until I couldn’t wander anymore
My eyesight became a shadow even in the hot burning sun
I just knew I was done
The desert felt like a furnace
Desert Wind Storms kicked up violently
Tears poured down my face in anguish
Sweat was all over my body
My cries for help only echoed back
It was like hearing a recording being a song track
Yet my cries went unanswered
I felt alone
Suddenly a voice echoed out, “You can make it and take my hand”
Immediately the wanderer took the hand of a stranger
The wanderer looked into the eyes of the stranger, and discovered the face was recognizable
It was the face of the Heavenly Father
The Savior who controls
A man powerful and mighty who packs behold
The Desert Wanderer felt he wouldn’t survive
His life of assurance and conquest was written in the scribe
However the Lord said, “I am the Lord and you will strive”
The wanderer moved on
He also felt really strong
The Lord carried the Wanderer and he got along
It was Faith in where the wanderer needed to belong.

The Man stands up
His face covered in dirt,
but covered with pride.

Proudly He stands
independent,
but alone.

Strongly He walks
stride by stride,
but without companion.

Bravely He fights,
battle by battle,
war by war,
but without gain.

The Lone Wanderer,
Independent,
Strong,
Ready,
Steady,
Scars over scars,
but not a name to share with.

The Lone Wanderer,
he walks alone,
he doesn't need help.

The Lone Wanderer,
is he a result of success?
Or is he a result of sadness?

The Lone Wanderer
walks against the twilight,
leaving only a shadow.

Will you take him as the proud?
Or will you take him as the depressed?
Will you take him as the optimistic?
Or will you take him as a man who accepted destiny and fate.

Is He looking into the future?
Or is He looking into the past?

Is He thinking of something happy?
Or is He thinking of something He regrets?

Every man is a Lone Wanderer,
His duty to find his place in the world,

But how will others interpret him?
How will others accept him?
Or must he continue to wonder alone?

The wanderer had travelled for at least a day
Weary and tired looked for somewhere to stay
After walking for miles, just wandering around
She came across a perculiar little town
No signposts of entry to welcome her in
Simply a man who asked "Are you insane"?
The wanderer thought this was strange question
and instead asked the way to the inn
the man said insane we have no houses or businesses
as we are all insane
the wanderer thought this too was strange
and instead asked where she was
the man replied you are insane
I am insane
everybody in this town is insane
the wanderer she wondered if she too was insane as the man had said
the wanderer was determined not to stay insane
and ran of as fast as she could
the man watched her run and thought it strange
"They all do that, don't they, why does no one want to be in our wonderful town of Sane

All alone with no place to call home
A vagrant called The Wanderer roams
Destitute and resigned to his solitude
No one to miss him or care that he’s gone

Immortalized with the mark of Sloan
He thrives amongst forgotten gravestones
To restore their legacy is why he intrudes
For systemic erasure he believes society must atone

All alone with no place to call home
A vagrant called The Wanderer roams
Destitute and resigned to his solitude
No one to miss him or care that he’s gone

Empathy drives this misguided untomb
Generations of oppressors he seeks to dethrone
Reality remains an unfamiliar interlude
For to delusion The Wanderer is prone

All alone with no place to call home
A vagrant called The Wanderer roams
Destitute and resigned to his solitude
No one to miss him or care that he’s gone

All alone with no place to call home
A hero called The Wanderer roams
Complacent in his intrepid pursuit
Unfaltering ‘till the world sees glory of Arawn

A wanderer of stardust like no other, does not ask why,
The mountain dew don’t weep nor cry.
Transparent and pure in its own plight,
Some phenomenon just shines that bright.
Just like the rainbow in the sky.

A lost traveler with a bow tie,
Remember your strength as you scrape by.
The battle goes on and you are the only knight.
A wanderer of stardust like no other.

True love is vast as the blue sky,
Even if the enemies deny.
You keep your armor on and fight.
Till the end of twelfth night-
For you know heaven is nearby.
A wanderer of stardust like no other.

The good thing about being a gypsy
is its wild sativa;
the bad thing about being a gypsy
is its tamed alcoholic.

The good thing about being a gypsy
is its endless freedom;
the bad thing about being a gypsy
is its slavery to freedom.

The good thing about being a gypsy
is its philosophic heart;
the bad thing about being a gypsy
is its down-regulation of joy.

The best thing about being a wanderer
is its search for silence;
the worst thing about being a wanderer
is its capacity for noise.

The best thing about being a wanderer
is the free meal;
the worst thing about being a wander
is the free meal.

The best thing about being a wanderer
is the love of night;
the worst thing about being a wanderer
is the love of day.

The best thing about being a gypsy
is the wandering heart;
the worst thing about being a wanderer
is the gypsy heart.

The best thing about being a gypsy
is its magic book;
the worst thing about being a gypsy
is its accumulated curse.

The best thing about being a gypsy
is its varied muse;
the worst thing about being a gypsy
is its lack of one.

A mind of a wanderer,
a peaceful place.
On earth it screams,
in here, it's sound asleep.
Breathing the air,
of the darkest night.
With all these stars,
shining bright.

A mind of a wanderer,
a surreal surrounding.
On earth it cries,
in here, it's drowning deep.
Into the ocean,
of the ancient history.
With beautiful mermaids,
singing lullaby.

A mind of a wanderer,
a high, high mountain.
On earth it lays low,
In here, it's standing still.
Walks a hundred steps,
on a steep pathway,
it even reaches the peak,
in time for the sunset.

A mind of a wanderer,
it stays here.
In a space,
which no one could trespass.

And into the black
The wanderer goes
Farther
Farther still

Back to the lonesome dreams
To the memories of low esteem

For the wanderer
Returning home
Is never easy

Dust covered boots
And worn ragged cape
Contain him

His life

Who he is
Amounts not to where he has been
Or what he has seen
But to the redemption
Of all that has come before
To
Every desperate step
Every windswept
Weather worn scar



Footfall
By footfall
Straining muscle
And disenchanted breath
The wanderer comes upon
Ever so slowly
The cancer of his heart
The rot of his bones
The disease of his skin





Despite the distance  
The salvation of time
As if like a mountain side
Or deep jagged canyon bluffs
Shaped by ceaseless wind
And pounding rain

The wanderer
Wears away

“I know you're tired but come, this is the way...

In your light, I learn how to love.
In your beauty, how to make poems.
You dance inside my chest where no-one sees you,
but sometimes I do, and that sight becomes this art.”*        ― Rumi


1.
“You and I have spoken all these words, but for the way we have to go, words are no preparation. I have one small drop of knowing in my soul.
Let it dissolve in your ocean.

A mountain keeps an echo deep inside. That's how I hold your voice.”
― Rumi


2.
“Do not feel lonely, the entire universe is inside you.
Stop acting so small. You are the universe in ecstatic motion.

Set your life on fire. Seek those who fan your flames.”   ― Rumi


3.
“The way of love is not
a subtle argument.

The door there
is devastation.

Birds make great sky-circles
of their freedom.
How do they learn it?

They fall, and falling,
they're given wings.”                          ― Rumi


4.
“The morning wind spreads its fresh smell. We must get up and take that in, that wind that lets us live. Breathe before it's gone.

Sorrow prepares you for joy.
It violently sweeps everything out of your house, so that new joy can find space to enter. It shakes the yellow leaves from the bough of your heart, so that fresh, green leaves can grow in their place. It pulls up the rotten roots, so that new roots hidden beneath have room to grow.
Whatever sorrow shakes from your heart, far better things will take their
place.”                                     ― Rumi


5.
“You are so weak. Give up to grace.
The ocean takes care of each wave till it gets to shore.
You need more help than you know.

Be a lamp, or a lifeboat, or a ladder. Help someone's soul heal.
Walk out of your house like a shepherd.”
― Rumi, The Essential Rumi


6.
“You think you are alive
because you breathe air?
Shame on you,
that you are alive in such a limited way.
Don't be without Love,
so you won't feel dead.
Die in Love
and stay alive forever.

I want to see you.
Know your voice.

Recognise you when you
first come 'round the corner.

Sense your scent when I come
into a room you've just left.

Know the lift of your heel,
the glide of your foot.

Become familiar with the way
you purse your lips
then let them part,
just the slightest bit,
when I lean in to your space
and kiss you.

I want to know the joy
of how you whisper
“more”...                                                       ­     ― Rumi


7.
“When you go through a hard period,
When everything seems to oppose you,
... When you feel you cannot even bear one more minute,
NEVER GIVE UP!
Because it is the time and place that the course will divert!

The cure for pain is in the pain.
In Silence, there is eloquence. Stop weaving and see how the pattern improves.

The truth was a mirror in the hands of God. It fell, and broke into pieces. Everybody took a piece of it, and they looked at it and thought they had the truth.”                                       ― Rumi


8.
“Study me as much as you like, you will not know me, for I differ in a hundred ways from what you see me to be. Put yourself behind my eyes and see me as I see myself, for I have chosen to dwell in a place you cannot see.

Moonlight floods the whole sky from horizon to horizon;
How much it can fill your room depends on its windows.”
― Rumi, The Essential Rumi


9.
“Keep walking, though there's no place to get to.
Don't try to see through the distances.
That's not for human beings. Move within,
But don't move the way fear makes you move.

If you are irritated by every rub, how will your mirror be polished?

Start a huge, foolish project, like Noah…it makes absolutely no difference what people think of you.”   ― Rumi


10.
“Do you know what you are?
You are a manuscript oƒ a divine letter.
You are a mirror reflecting a noble face.
This universe is not outside of you.
Look inside yourself;
everything that you want,
you are already that.”
― Rumi, Hush, Don't Say Anything to God: Passionate Poems of Rumi



11.
“Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing
and rightdoing, there is a field.
I'll meet you there.

When the soul lies down in that grass
the world is too full to talk about.

What you seek, is seeking you.”                             ― Rumi


12.
“The lion is most handsome when looking for food.

Pain is a treasure, for it contains mercies.
Love comes with a knife, not some shy question, and not with fears for its reputation!

I am your moon and your moonlight too
I am your flower garden and your water too
I have come all this way, eager for you
Without shoes or shawl
I want you to laugh
To **** all your worries
To love you
To nourish you.”                                          ― Rumi


13.
“I was dead, then alive.
Weeping, then laughing.

The power of love came into me,
and I became fierce like a lion,
then tender like the evening star.”                        ― Rumi


14.
“Suffering is a gift. In it is hidden mercy.

Come, come, whoever you are. Wanderer, worshiper, lover of leaving.
It doesn't matter. Ours is not a caravan of despair.. come, even if you have broken your vows a thousand times. Come, yet again, come, come.

But listen to me. For one moment - quit being sad. Hear blessings
dropping their blossoms
around you.

I closed my mouth and spoke to you in a hundred silent ways.”
― Rumi


15.
“The breeze at dawn has secrets to tell you. Don't go back to sleep!
You must ask for what you really want.
Don't go back to sleep!
People are going back and forth
across the doorsill where the two worlds touch,
The door is round and open
Don't go back to sleep!

These pains you feel are messengers. Listen to them.”
― Rumi, The Essential Rumi



16.
“Like a sculptor, if necessary,
carve a friend out of stone.
Realise that your inner sight is blind
and try to see a treasure in everyone.”                    ― Rumi


17.
“Let the lover be disgraceful, crazy, absent-minded. Someone sober will worry about things going badly. Let the lover be.

There are lovers content with longing.
I’m not one of them.”    ― Rumi, The Essential Rumi


18.
“There is a secret medicine given only to those who hurt so hard they can't hope.
The hopers would feel slighted if they knew.

You were born with potential.
You were born with goodness and trust. You were born with ideals and dreams. You were born with greatness.
You were born with wings.
You are not meant for crawling, so don't.
You have wings.
Learn to use them and fly.”          ― Rumi


19.
“Forget safety.
Live where you fear to live.
Destroy your reputation.
Be notorious.

Inside you, there’s an artist you don’t know about… say yes quickly, if you know, if you’ve known it from before the beginning of the universe.”
― Rumi


20.
“Let yourself be silently drawn by the stronger pull of what you really love. It will not lead you astray.”     ― Rumi





"On a day
when the wind is perfect,
the sail just needs to open and the world is full of beauty.
Today is such a day.”                                               ― Rumi






S T – 25 feb 14

I was wanderer,
Wandering in the land of death and despair;
Blows and bruises were my food
Blood and tears, my drink.

I was a wanderer,
Wandering in the desert of solitude;
The sands were of broken promises
The sun was my life's Judas.

I was a wanderer,
Wandering in the forest of fear;
The trees were all overpowering and bullying
The animals were all predators.

I am still a wanderer,
Wandering in the infinite land, desert and forest;
In search of a home to where I belong
In a quest to find solace in the stillness.

riding the shadowless night
in search of his darkest day
more or less there's Hell to pay
and this is the way of The Wanderer

rocky is the path of mossless stones
and where it leads is less than known
nevertheless 'tis where he roams
and this is the way of The Wanderer

much pity there should not be
as he has visited much pain upon others
passing like a wraith through their friendly hearts
leaving nothing real or true in his wake

nothing could be so bold as a lost soul
unafraid of what is unknown
afoot the rocky path of mossless stones
all alone

and this is the way of i
i am The Wanderer

Man life know just set eyes way like young world soul day hunger space mouth earth thoughts ignorance blind things mind knew final moment human creation kind creatures souls high forgotten dream love spoke self existence face holy deep bound think home void say surrender ear forever called held ephemeral red state end shall heed hope edge living waking fall sea wake garden need February thought past wanderer got men page colored tepid terrible **** proudly untitled features point painted faceless box forgot render wild spring splendor  handfuls looking half brain lost torn ancestral  unseen vision inner summer honor mister owned banner save today fear groans wasn't smoke  street fable strange year contrast black years  able pain body spoken word known motion  palpitate reeling nature culture disclaimers  cancer beg attentive frames ****** base profound double remember wholly finger death token  cries continue folk oh fishing form broken true  divides spread ah twas away breathe wait 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promise gift union swallowing endless floor supposed ecstasy sensory intent  psychotropic cradling placement interned  jagged connectivity exchange congenial begun  summons singular spiral assumes ambient reciprocates re-entry fruition reached aggregate lifetime limbs birthed instinct  frightening tarry proper entire light  boundaries innocence pursuit ago discover left  youth's unknowing sacred time place meager  simple fact cast ceaseless wide-eyed literal  apparent coincidence create boldness morphed  crooked kempt mere stumble buried shutter fairy  pivotal definitive months worth shear ambition sound required journeyed self-reflections title  facets vague restless intimation gut wanderer's  leap motivate path account boy soon bears faith  question tripped reasons uproot awaited confronted days step heal provocations wisps crushing transcend chronicles instance  directness raw drove occurrence objective-less  real enters slightest confident nondescript  typify  foreshortened interment paradox bitter heart  devoid jeopardy angry sensation confidential guilty arrogance mercy compliance reprieve  vincent deadening factual sign emotion awe  inhibition shackled butterflies absence actual sciences acknowledgement violent stagnant  spiritual American doors roots lack matted fore  gestures society cause streams intensity hair impossible discord lonely hearts resounding  jest  what's flavored pains closed toxic contented  happenstance scientific knowledge yeah  wizardry shaking stifled withdrawn bloom  jitter dreads settle asocial hulton make  predisposed figurative reflections demeanors  wondered affect hulton's projected sense  morning industry arrays ghosts feeling  certainly endomorphic where's partially wrath  passer mornings jovial unease advertized asking  trash onward wished tempers media mentality connect pasts sharp-toothed scramble great colours trial test salvation continually lent  degree secretly subjection social waned  disconnected colors grimly intellectual civilization cash trading baffling particular  digest myths monumental ending seasons winter  repetition introducing agent everlasting  shoulders delivered honestly-- possession funny  continence history unsightly function suffering propulsion profession divulge familiar tugs era  importance capability perpetuation spite inventory words entirety leveling fray insight  date record continues writer getting evermore fellow tongue possessions identical proof accuracy education similar sack admittance  favor unravel conveyance guilt gives beginnings  predicting audacity definition bobby heady eaters frameless learned release stone grandeur sang  speak molds sleeps split built seats people folded  sheer pour evoked playhouse liquid boring  tellers frayed stark walked reality pleas doth  preformed shows beak pride squawks opinions  greatest bold stunning sightings he'd loudly slain  sunk watch legend precipice theater deeper compound commentator civility justly silly sin  reverent seen prophetic moral confounds notion  lacking explain attempt prolific viral estrange proclivity scorn hide blur pious strung eden's  horror cut skin arch cruel twig mother vile  pass lend woods peach shrunken trail man's canopy worn 434 eat warm limb familiar father delete.

You are what your reading lady. Now would you hold this gun?

The wanderer takes a bow at sunset as if it were his own creation,
The darkening wisps of light and color painted across the sky by the brush tucked behind his ear,
The paths twisting through the trees below him a manifesto wrought from his tired mind,
The nightingale’s twilight salute a symphony played to his ears alone.


Night comes, and he lets the hours slip through his fingers
as he searches for the secrets buried at the bottom of the bottle clutched so tightly between them.


He watches the moon travel across the sky,
Wishing he could travel at its speed,
God’s speed,
A speed that would set him apart from every other man with a pair of boots and a lonely heart.


His mind is a poem unspoken,
When he breathes he sees the wind as if it were filling the lungs of the earth,
Giving life where there was none,
Bringing words to the back of his throat where they shimmer and shake and disappear,
Leaving their watery reflection in eyes that dance with a youth lost to the tired lids that close over them.


He watches water crawl across stone
Boring holes in the sides of mountains
Yet his feet leave no trace behind him as he travels
Though he feels them burst with the power he wishes his heart contained


In a world measured in centuries he is the ghost of a moment passed,
The remnants of a smile still tattooed on his blistered cheeks.
He has long since buried his morals alive in the coffin of society,
Hammering in the nails like offerings to a dead king.


I met the wanderer once as my thoughts followed his well worn path to places neither of us would ever reach,
To the stars that gave birth to god in the hearts of men whose minds lied open like blank pages
waiting to be filled with words they were too frightened to call their own.


He walked into my mind as if into the arms of an old friend,
No more a stranger than I to the ebb and flow of my nocturnal being,
Nor to the stream of consciousness that runs like blood through its veins,
Twisting and turning and throwing itself into the night from which it came.


He stood on the lofty precipice of passion,
Searching for something to hold on to,
But the lantern that he held like a child in his arms cast shadow on that which he wished most to illuminate.


Morning came, and the wanderer took a bow at sunrise as if it were his own creation,
He turned his back,
Took with him the night,
(his sole companion),
And I, caught in the storm of his thundering wake, watched him go,
As he had come,
In silence.

1.
From my
uneasy bed
at the L’Enfant,
a train's pensive
horn breaks the
sullen lullaby of
an HVAC’s hum;
interrupting the
mechanical
reverie of its
steadfast
night watch,
allowing my ear
to discern
the stampede
of marauding
corporate Visigoths
sacking the city.

The cacophony
of sloven gluttony,
the ***** songs of
unrequited privilege
and the unencumbered
clatter of radical
entitlement echoes
off the city’s cold
crumbling stones.

The unctuous
bellows of the
victorious pillagers
profanely feasting
pierces the
hanging chill
of the nations
black night.

Their hoots
deride the train
transporting
the defeated
ghosts of
Lincoln’s last
doomed regiments
dispatched in vain
to preserve a
peoples republic
in a futile last stand.

The rebels have
finally turned the tide,
T Boone Pickett’s
Charge succeeds,
sending the ravaged
Grand Army of the
Republic sliding
back to the Capitol,
in savage servility,
gliding on squeaky
ungreased wheels
ferrying the
Union’s dead
vanquished
defenders to
unmarked graves
on Potters Field.

The Rebels
joyous yell
bounces off
the inert granite
stones of the
soulless city.

The spittle
of salivating
vandals drips
over the
spoils of war
as they initiate the
disassemblage,
the leveling and
reapportionment
of the grand prize.

The clever
oligarchs
have laid claim
to a righteous
reparation
of the peoples
assets for
pennies on the
dollar.

Their wholly
bought politicos
move to transfer
distressed assets
into their just
stewardship
through the
holy justice
of privatization
and the sound
rationale of
free market
solutions.

In the land of the
pursuit of property,
nimble wolf PACs
of swift 527, LLCs
have fully
metastasized
into personhood;
ascending to
the top of the
food chain in
America’s
voracious
political culture;
bestriding
the nation to
compel the
national will
to genuflect
to the cool facility
of corporate
dominion.

As the
inertial ******
of the plaintive
locomotive
fades into
another old
morning of
recalcitrant
Reaganism,
it lugs its
ambivalent
middle class
baggage toward
it’s fast expiring
future.

I follow
the dirge
down to
the street
as the ebbing
sound fades
into the gloom
of the
burgeoning
morning,
slowly
replacing the
purple twilight
with a breaking
day of cold gray
clouds framing
silhouettes of
cranes busily
constructing
a new city.

The personhood of
corporations need
homes in our new
republic; carving
out new
neighborhoods
suitable for the
monied citizens
of our nation.

First amongst
equals, the best
corporate governance
charters form
the foundation of
the republic’s
new constitution.
Civil rights
are secondary
to the freedom
of markets; the
Bill of Rights
are economically
replaced by the
cool manifests
of Bills of Lading.

The agents of
laissez faire
capitalism
nibble away
at the city’s
neighborhoods
one block at a time;
while steady winds
blows dust off
the National Mall.

Layers of the
peoples plaza are
plained away with
each rising gust.  

History repeats
itself as the Joad’s
are routed from their
land once again.

A clever
mixed use
plan of
condos and
strip malls
is proposed
to finally help the
National Mall
unlock its true
profit potential.

As America’s
affection for
federalism fades
the water in
the reflection pool
is gracefully drained.

We the people
can no longer
see ourselves.

The profit
potential of
industry is
preferred over
the specious
metaphysical
benefits
of reflection.

The grand image,
the rich pastiche,
the quixotic aroma
of the national
melting ***
is reduced to the
sameness of the
black tar that lines
the pool and the
swirling eddies of
brown dust circling
the cracked indenture.

From his not so
distant vantage point,
Abe ponders the
empty pool wondering
if the cost of lives
paid was a worthy
endeavor of preserving
the ****** union?  
Has the dear prize
won perished from
this earth?

Was the illusive
article of liberty  
worth its weight in
the blood expended?

Did the people ever
fully realize the value
of government
by the people,
for the people?

Did citizens of
the republic
assume the
responsibilities to
protect and honor
the rights and privileges
of a representative
government?

Now our idea
and practice of
civil rights is measured
and promoted as far as
it can be justified by
a corporate ROI, a
shareholder dividend,
an earmark or a political
donation to a senators
unconnected PAC.

The divine celestial
ledgers balancing
the rights and
privilege of free people
drips with red ink.  

Liberty, equality
fraternity are bankrupt
secular notions
condemned as
expensive
liberal seditions;
hatched by
UnHoly Jacobins,
the atheist skeptics
during the dark times
of the Age of Enlightenment.

Abe ponders
the restoration
of Washington’s
obelisk, to
repair the cracks
suffered  from
last summer’s
freak earthquake.

I believe I detect
a tear in Abe’s
granite eye
saddened by the
corporate temblors
shaking the
foundations
of the city.

2.

The WWII Memorial
is America’s Parthenon
for a country's love
affair with the valor
and sacrifice of warfare.

WWII forms the
cornerstone of
understanding the
pathos of the
American Century.

During WWII
our greatest generation
rose as a nation to
defeat the menace of
global fascism and
indelibly mark the
power and virtue of
American democracy.

As Lincoln’s Army
saved federalism, FDR’s
Army kept the world safe
for democracy.

Both armies served
a nation that shared
the sacrifice and
burden of war to
preserve the grace of
a republican democracy.

Today federalism
crumbles as our
democracy withers.

The burden
of war is reserved
for a precious few
individuals while
its benefits
remain confined to
the corporate elite.

Our monuments
to war have become
commercial backdrops
for the hollow patriotism
of war profiteers.

We have mortgaged
our future to pay
for two criminal wars.

The spoils of
war flow into the
pockets of
corporate
shareholders
deeply invested
in the continuation
of pointless,
destructive
hostilities.

Our service
members who
selflessly served
their country come
home to a less free,
fear struck nation;
where economic
security and political
liberty erodes
each day while the
monied interests
continue to bless
the abundance
of freedom and riches
purchased with the
blood and sweat
of others.

America desperately
needs a new narrative.

The spirit of the
Greatest Generation
who sacrificed and met
the challenge of the 20th
Century must become
this generations spiritual
forebears.

The war on terror
neatly fits the
the corporate
pathos of
militarism,
surveillance
and the sacrifice
of civil liberties
to purchase
a daily measure
of fear and
economic
enslavement.

It must be rejected
by a people committed
to building secular
temples to pursue
peace, democracy,
economic empowerment,
civil liberties and tolerance
for all.

Yet this old city
and the democratic
temples it built
exulting a free people
anointed with the
grace of liberty
is being consumed
in a morass of
commercial
polyglot.

3.

During the
War of 1812
the British Army
burned the
Capitol Building
and the White House
to the ground.

Thank goodness
Dolly Madison saved
what she could.

The new marauders
are not subject to the
pull of nostalgia.  

They value nothing
save their
self enrichment.

They will spare nothing.

Our besieged Capitol
requires Lincoln’s troops
to be stationed along the
National Mall to defend
the republic.

The greatest peril
to our nation
is being directed
by well placed
Fifth Columnists.

From the safety
of underground bunkers,
in secure undisclosed
locations within the city’s
parameters, a well financed
confederacy employing  
K Street shenanigans
are busy selling off
the American Dream
one ear mark
at a time, one
huge corporate
welfare allotment
at a time.

The biggest prize
is looting the real
property of the people;
selling Utah,
auctioning off
the public schools,
water systems, post offices
and mineral rights
on the cheap
at an Uncle Sam
garage sale.  

The capitol is
indeed burning
again.

Looters are
running riot.

The flailing arms
of a dying empire
fire off cruise
missiles and drone
strikes; hitting the
target of habeas
corpus as it
shakes in its
final death rattle.
I make a pilgrimage
to the MLK Jr.
Monument.

Our cultural identity
is outsourced to
foreign contractors
paid to reinterpret
the American Dream
through the eyes
of a lowest bidder.

MLK has lost
his humanity.

He has been
reduced to a
a Chinese
superhuman
Mao like anime
busting loose from
a granite mountain while
geopolitical irony
compels him to watch
Tommy Jefferson
**** Sally Hemings
from across the tidal
basin for all eternity.  

MLK’s eyes fixed in
stern fascination,
forever enthralled
by the contradictions
of liberty and its
democratic excesses
of love in the willows
on golden pond.

Circling back to
Father Abraham’s
Monument,  I huddle
with a group of global
citizens listening
to an NPS Ranger
spinning four score
tales with the last full
measure of her devotion.

I look up into Abe’s
stone eyes as he
surveys platoons
of gray suited
Chinese Communist
envoys engaged
in Long Marches
through the National Mall;
dutifully encircling cabinet
buildings and recruiting
Tea Party congressmen
into their open party cells.

This confederacy
is ready to torch
the White House
again.

Congressmen and
the perfect patriots
from K Street slavishly
pull their paymasters
in gilded rickshaws to
golf outings at the Pentagon
and park at the preferred
spots reserved for
the luxury box holders
at Redskin Games.

They vow not to rest
until the house of the people
is fully mortgaged to the
People’s Republic of China’s
Sovereign Wealth Fund.

4.

A great
Son of Liberty like
Alan Greenspan
roundly rings
the bells of
free markets
as he inches
T Bill rates
forward a few
basis points
at a time; while
his dead mentor
Ayn Rand
lifts Paul Ryan
to her
Fountainhead teet.
He takes a long
draw as she
coos songs
from her primer
of Atlas Shrugged
Mother Goose tales
into his silky ears.

The construction
cranes swing
to the music
building new private
sector space with
the largess of
US taxpayers
money; or
more rightly
future generations
taxpayer debt.

Libertarians,
Tea Baggers, Blue Dogs
and GOP waterboys
eagerly light a
match to the
the crucifixes
bearing federal
social safety
net programs
to the delight
of NASDAQ
listed capitalists
on the come,
licking their chops
to land contracts
to administer
these programs
at a negotiated
cost plus
profit margin.

Citizens
dependent
on programs
are leery
shareholders
are ecstatic.

To be sure
our free
market rebels
don disguises
of red, white
and blue robes
but their objectives
fail to distinguish
their motives and
methods with
some of the finest
Klansman this
country has
ever produced.

5.

DC is a city
of joggers
and choppers.

Corporate
helicopters
wizz by the
Washington
Monument,
popping erections
for the erectors
inspecting the progress
of the cranes
commanding the
city skyline.

USMC drill team
out for a morning
run circles the Mall.

The commanding
cadence of the
DI keeps us
mindful of the
deepening
militarization of
our society.

A crowd  
rushes
to position
themselves,
genuflecting
to photograph
a platoon on
the move.

I try to consider
the defining
characteristics of
Washington DC.

DC is all surface.

It is full of walls
and mirrors.

Its primary hue
is obfuscation.

Open
communication
scripted from well
considered talking points
informs all dialog.

The city is thoroughly
enraptured in narcissism.

Thankfully, one can
always capture the
reflection of oneself in
the ubiquitous presence of
mirrors.  

Vanity imprisons
the city inhabitants.

Young joggers circle the
Mall and gerrymander
down every pathway
of the city.  

They are the clerks,
interns and staffers of
the judicial, executive
and legislative branches.

They are the children
of privilege.

They will never
alter their path.

You must cede the walk
to their entitlement
of a swift comportment
or risk injury of a
violent collision.

These young ones
portray a countenance  
of benevolent rulers.  

They seem to be learning
their trade craft well from
the senators and judges
whom they serve.

They appear confident
they know what's best
for the country and after
their one term of tireless
service to the republic
they look forward to
positions in the private
sector where they will
assist corporations
to extend their reach
into the pant pockets
worn by the body politic.

6.

Our nations mythic story
lies hidden deep in the
closed rooms of the
museums lining the
Mall.

I pause to consider
what a great nation
and its great people
once aspired to.

I spy the a
suspended
Space Shuttle
hanging in dry dock
at the air and
space museum.

Today America’s
astronauts hitch
rides on Russian
rockets.

America rents a
timeshare from
the European
space agency to
lift communication
satellites into orbit.

Across the Mall
I photograph
John Smithson’s
ashes in its columbarium.  

I fear it has become a
metaphor for America’s
future commitment
to scientific inquiry
and rational secular
thinking.

I am relieved to
discover a Smithsonian
exhibit that asks
“what does it mean
to be human?”

The Origins of Humans
exhibit carries a disclaimer
to satisfy creationists.

The exhibit timidly states
that science can coexist
with religious beliefs and
that the point of the exhibit is
not to inflame inflame religious
passions but to shed light on
scientific inquiry.

I imagine these exhibits
will inflame the passion of
the fundamentalist
American Taliban and
provide yet another
reason to dismantle
the Moloch of Federalism.

The pursuit of science
remains safe at the
Smithsonian for now.

7.

Near K Street at
McPherson Park
a posse of
well dressed
lobbyists, the
self anointed
uber patriots
doing the work
of the people
stroll through
the park
boasting a
healthy population
of bedraggled
homeless.

The homeless
occupy the benches
that have been
transformed into
pup tents.

Perhaps some of
the residents of this
mean estate were
made homeless by a
foreclosed mortgage.  

The K Street warriors
can be proud that their
work on behalf of the
banking industry has
forestalled financial market
reform.  

Through it exacerbates
the homeless problem it has
allowed these K Street titans to
profit from the distress of others.

Earlier in the day
I photographed
a homeless man
planted in front of
the Washington
Monument.

I wonder
if my political
voyeurism is
an exploitation of
this man’s condition?

I have more in common
then I probably wish to
admit with my K Street
antagonists.  

In another section
of the park the
remnants of a
distressed OWS
bivouac remain.

The legions of sunshine
patriots have melted away
as the interest of the
blogosphere has waned.

As the weather
improves Moveon.org
and democratic
party operatives
pitch tents in an
effort to resuscitate
the moribund
movement.

They hope
to coop any
remaining energy
to support their
stale deception,
a neoliberal vision
based solely on the
total capitulation
to the bankrupt
corporatocracy.

I heard someone say
a campaign lasts a
season; while a
movement for social
change takes decades.

If that metric proves
correct, and if the
powers don’t succeed
in compromising the
people’s movement
I’ll be three quarters
of a century old
before I see
justice flowing like
a river once again.

8.

I circle back to
the L’Enfant and
find myself
tramping amidst
the lost platoon
of Korean War
soldiers.

My feet drag
in the quagmire
of grass covering
the feet of this
ghostly troop.

My namesake
uncle was a
decorated
veteran of this
conflict and Im
sure I detect
his likeness
in one of the
statues.

The bleak call
of a distant train
sounds a revelry
and I imagine this
patrol springing
to life to answer
the call of their
beloved country
once again.

Yet they remain
inert.  

Stuck in a
place that the
nation finds
impossible to
leave.

The eyes of the
men stare into
an incomprehensible
fate.  

They see the swarms
of Red Army infantrymen
crossing the Yellow River
streaming toward
them in massive
human waves,
the tips of
sparkling bayonets
threatening to slash
the outmanned
contingent fighting
to bits.

They are the
first detachment
to bravely confront
the rising power
of China many
thousands of
miles away
from their homes.

America like
this lone company
is overwhelmed
and lost in the
confusion
that confronts
them.

Looking up
I perceive the
bewilderment
of my muddled image
reflected on the
marble walls
surrounding
the memorial.

I am a comrade-in-arms,
a fellow wanderer sojourning
with th

The wanderer walks more then he talks fished in a *** of emotions asteroid

torn by the fact that time is a plant
of which can't be regrown when grown on a slant
oh surface what is my purpose?
why am I here? what am I after?
what is my fear?

Stuck in a haze
of being afraid of the future

I'm the wanderer of night

The walker of the shadows

my feet glide lightly beneath the
street & it's gravel

I'm peeping at the living
within the holes of their hollows

Wondering if there lives are a cycle

Go to sleep, Go to work,
Go where ever the light glows

Follow the crowd, be a part of the now

Your past actions will only be known as a noun, I've figured it out, I've opened the spout

The opportunities are endless there just flowing about

the waters of remembrance are very shallow, and impact must be heavy to make a splash

Do what you love, and your passions will truly last

Don't be stuck in the past, instead,  thrive on what's here today

This message is retrospective
echoed in constant delay

As I walk deeper into the dark this is what I truly say....L...O...S...T

it's hard to stay on track when you've mentally lost perspective
When everything you've known turns unfamiliar within seconds

Is this good energy?

or the spread of an infection?

I need a tower of fortune cookies

to hold my lessons

For when that tower crashes

it will crumble into a message

Do I search for more? or do I stay inside the common section?

I'm searching for the uncommon and people of rarity

Who can explain the emotions

of human irregularity?

Will I sustain my vision of singularity

art crafted in loops

repetition brings recognition to patterns covered from clarity

This is just a turn of the leaf

roots of the past years die off

they become obsolete, as we drift deeper into forms of technology, we suddenly find people in the form of anomalies

Look outside your window and standing there I will be, a stranger in the night

Peeping through windows for company

Only searching for answers that all of us seem to seek

Who will I be today and the following week

Who will I meet today that will change who I want to be

These are thoughts of the wanderer waking amount the streets

Wanderer with no name, intentions deemed unclear.
A purpose in life, near impossible to satisfy;
To stand tall amongst peers,
To wipe those faltered tears
and above all, find solace in all fears.

This drifter long forgot his name,
so dead set on his goal,
he locked away all inner conflicts,
forbidding the pleasures of being human that
even a ditch digger couldn't dig a bigger hole.

The Wanderer must be a beacon of hope
for those not strong to bear their weight,
he chose this selfless fate,
fully knowing no one else should,
but rather understanding he could.

To those who have cracked under pain:
blood, tears, mascara, any stain,
know that this drifter is coming for you
to pick you up off the dirt with a simple hand
and carrying you where you used to stand.

There will come a time when this drifter
shall sit down and tackle his own fears,
but in a world that needs guidance,
he cannot afford to lose sight
on ending the darkness with his light.

Wanderer, remember who you were and who you are.
For you have traveled for so long and so far.
Remove those dusty boots by the hearth and lay down
because your own name still has yet to be found.

Hi wanderer.

are you lost?
Or are you searching?
Searching for something to give you meaning.
Have you been found?
Or is waiting to be?
You could share me your stories
Id share mine to thee.
Are you looking for love?
Are you for fun?
Im not here to waste time.
Please do not waste mine.
Wanderer.. you might've been searching
you've might have been found..
you've might've seen your meaning
you've might have seen through mine.
Or you dont.
whatever might this bring.
I'm glad you've dropped by.
You've never wasted time here.
Every little thing you've done.
Is worthwhile.

As for her,

She might has forgotten
where the home is in the world

For she's always everywhere—
in every countries she crossed
on every streets she wandered
at every motels she spent the night
above the sand and ocean breeze
below the tallest buildings and crowded bridges..

But you,

You make her feel like
the closest thing to feeling that again

I am a gypsy wanderer.
The only home
I have ever known
Is my body.
And I destroy it.
Those like me
Can never have a home.
So I fill my lungs
With cigarette smoke,
My skin with scars
And my blood with *****.

I A WANDERER
VISIT DIFFERENT PLACES
TO BECOME A FOLLOWER
OF THE NATURE
AND IT'S LOVELY ADVENTURE
I SEE HILLS   AND CLIFFS
THAT SAY
"DARE TO TRY ME OUT"
I SEE LAKE AND RIVERS
THAT  SAYS
"I AM LIKE FLOWING TIME"
AND I SEE MOTHER NATURE
CRYING FOR HELP
BECAUSE HER BODY IS DEPLETING
I SEE ANIMALS THAT
NEED MY HELP
LOVE,AFFECTION
I SEE INSECTS
THAT TRY TO HARM ME
AND INSECTS
WHO HELPS  ME
I SEE HUMAN
LARGE CITY PEOPLE
DIFFERENT RACES OF PEOPLE
I SEE SAD AND HOMELESS PEOPLE
BEGGARS AND RICH PEOPLE
THEN I SEE MYSELF
AND
MY LIFE AS
AS A WANDERER
AND I DO NOT KNOW WHAT
I WILL BE IN NEXT LIFE
THEN I SEE
THE CREATOR OF THE WORLD
LOOKING CALM
AND SEEING  ALL OUR  REACTION
BUT HAS NOTHING TO SAY
THEN I  WANDER
AROUND THE WORLD
I SEE PLANTS , FLOWER AND
TREES
BEING DESTROYED
I SEE ANIMALS
VANISHING INTO THIN AIR
AND SLOWLY AS MY WANDERING
PERIOD COMES TO END
I SEE HUMANS
OLD, WEAK
HELPLESS
WITHOUT MOTHER NATURE
AND HER LOVELY  CHILDREN
EVERYONE KILLED BY HUMANS
AND I FEEL THE PEOPLE
THE PEOPLE HAUNTING  ME
LIKE I AM THEIR FOOD
SLOWLY I SEE THEY LOOK EACH OTHER AS
FOODS
AND FINALLY WHEN MY LIFE COMES
TO A END
I FEEL
THE  MOTHER NATURE DYING ALONG SIDE ME

Eyes which hide a desperate soul
Wanting something which no human had hold
He bothers not but he does care
Accepting honesty which is just not fair
Like a magician out of thin air,
Art and himself, an undying bond they share.
His past was too eventful; I call it history
The present, tangled in deep deep mystery
The astronaut of his dreams, a fortunate trader
He chooses not the sound of 'grey', he uses 'silver'.
He is disappointment accompanied by gratitude
Everything beautiful is his soul's food
Blessed with the gift of true goodness,
An impartial admirer of undying passion and natural clue
He is the healer of his solitude,
He is the silence which married vacuum's mood.

Wherever his thoughts sail him to
Whichever land his heart chooses to move to
Whatever beauty his eyes seek to find
There,the wildest of the worlds his soul grew.
There is nothing which would trouble the wanderer
Yet, I see there is something too.
More than this world around him, he is stronger
The wanderer wails only because of the universe within,
The wanderer is used to wandering,
He walks blindly with pain inside, beauty beside,
Love on his mind, peace struggling with reality
He knows that he's the only person who can help him
Unlock the treasures of golden nature,
Shining shyly like dreamy drops of silver dew.

Everyone is a wanderer
so few find their hearts' desire
the winds their fury unleash
the sun burns like wild fire.

There's no resting place
only slippery rocks, sharp ascents and mire
but there's no turning back
though the prospect is dire.

There's no food or water
for the hungry and thirsty wanderer
the night sky palely looks from asunder
the stars are weary and lose their glitter.

Everyone is a wanderer
destiny is the driver
but none wants to be a loser
this defines him in his perilous splendour.

forlorn wanderer, lost soul
she drank the neck & shoulders from that bottle of whiskey
where do you travel with that tattered map
how do you know when you are home.

thick rolling clouds swell above the road
cumulonimbus
dark and tumultuous omens for a weary traveler
who doesn't recognize home.

forlorn wanderer, timid soul
she hid from a world that never made her whole
sweet child, why do you hide
what secret do you keep that can't be known.

a swelling tide tumbles waves upon the shore
noreaster
strong and dangerous for a tired heart
who can't bear to find shore.

forlorn wanderer, aching soul
she collapsed into her aching heart
what broke in you that keeps on beating
how can we mend your brittle core.

The lumad in her doesn't go away,
The map's of time; written  
Upon her face. O' the
Stories, of her kin dost speak; an empress
Of the Subanon, she is strong, I weak.

Tis she's sedulous, in her way's of hard
Work, knowledge do I gain, she guideth
Me in the rain; she dryeth mine tear's,
With her malong of royal worth.

Tis God's known her from her birth,
He picked her from the Mindanao Sea;
Verily, verily she's a sacred one,
Every breath she breathes is turquoise green.

And when she takes her daily breath,
Psalm's compose inside her chest, inside
Her chest where her heart doth beat;
Beat's of holiness, in whitened sheets.

Wild child of unknown path's, mine
Guide, mine friend, soulmate of the past;
Lover now, as wilt alway's be, do I learn,
So much I've yearned, from God's eastern breeze.

O' tis she's free, she's just like me,
As I am her; O' I am her; she call's
Me pookie, she's mine mi amour,
Mine Reyna, girl, Jehovah's daughter.


©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl jane Nagley dedicated ( àgapi mou)

Great tragedy suffered,
Impossible circumstances conquered,
The warrior walks upon the field flanked path.

The wanderer's armor tells a tale,
Battle scarred and partially rent asunder,
A face of stoicism that hides the haggardness underneath,
Peeking out beneath the mask of a hardened soldier.

The clouds clap ahead, preceded by flashes of light brightly illuminating the world,
Accompanied shortly after by the rainfall.

A trickle becomes a downpour,
The battered individual trudging along as the road becomes a bog of mud and slop,
The message firmly planted within their mind.

Coming upon the dark outline of the castle ahead the warrior picks up pace,
Reflecting upon what would happen to those that the Warrior helped.

The pace is now fueled by a different kind of urgency.

The rain is cold upon the face's of those that it falls on,
The torn edges of metal digging in at places,
Some already wounded and tender,
As the final hilltop between them is crested.

The gates are closed,
And this loyal soldier is for the moment shut out,
A fist is raised,
The declaration of allegiance given,
An angry detailing of the warriors achievements and adventures shouted,
And a challenge of one's path,
Building in anger and fury as the dam finally breaks and gushes forth,
Threatening to shatter the gate and doors to splinters and twisted metal.

A long ago promised gift to be rewarded,
For all the things endured,
Things that could be considered so cruel,
The storm picks up in force until it's akin to that of a hurricane,
As if brought forth by the warrior's grief and pain finally being released,
For the first and only time.

These things ringing out despite the storms roaring wind,
Gathering force,
Perhaps in affirmation of the warrior's words.

After a pause the gate begins to lift,
It's metal screeching,
The doors groaning as they begin to swing outward, and the battered soldier is bathed in light,
Taking the weight from the warrior's shoulders,
As the threshold is finally crossed.

I am left to wander in the depths of my despair.
A dark place; no light, no hope.
Perpetually crippled by deathly demons.
The selfish satans seeking insuppressible sadness and pain.

I, the lone wanderer, musn't give in.
A direction is beginning to take shape.
The lone wanderer will find an escape.

A shiver, a chill, a softly spoken whisper
The nights go on in their frosty manner
Spring won't arrive soon enough
A winter moon reveals all the night
She revels in the sky and swims with stars
She is always there, even when she is not
The grass crunches under the steps of a wanderer
The wandering mind is eager for warm rest
Warmth is found in the arms of a lover
And in the heart of the fighter
The night sky, bespeckled, is the only witness
To a passionate and desirous bliss
A shiver, a chill, a secret
The dreams continue in their wishful state
March won't arrive soon enough
The sun rises on a thick blanket of snow
He has the sky to himself, not a cloud to hide behind
He visits me every day and hugs me with his rays
The snow reveals the tracks of the wanderer
The wandering heart beats on