The Weary Traveler (man by the roadside)

The Weary Traveler (man by the roadside)

Sitting alone on his netted chair throne
The king waits for word from the sages
He stares at the world of modern disdain
And the banal deceit of the ages.
Across the divide of time and of tide
The bridegroom waits long for the bride -
Torn at the seams both his coat and his dreams
Sit idle till the end of these times.
He knew of a place and her sweet, gentle face
He was once one of seven lords gone,
He now sits with the dust -
The mold and the rust
A vagabond fool he is bound.
In a world with no mercy,
For to love him is heracy
He langors in foul imitation,
They say he's insane but he knows the truth plain
This world is but transient station.
Devoid of the right and cloaked in the night
Of death and scarce imagination,
He smokes the blunt nub of a used cigarette
As his thoughts they float far
(Fireflies in a jar)
And he muses with anticipation -
We're a spec on a spec on a spec here below
There are millions of worlds left to see,
But he vows to stay here to learn what he may
The easy way never is free.
As he drifts off to sleep just another lost soul
He visits his home from afar
In etherial dream
Life is not what it seems
But visions, sometimes they are.


~Darkling Plain, Mar. 10, 2007