The leaves of his life float on

streams created by a curious desire

to be someplace else.

Dust turns up behind footsteps

soothing the travel born to him.

Heavy doors swing shut on the pain

of uncorrected loves and insincere


Clouds are his canopy of protection,

a mist of heaven, covering what

he has left.

Clenched fists remind him of youth,

the fire long buried in scars of his past.

He is a journeyman of the road.

A student of highways. I watch him leave.

Maybe for the last time.


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