The Vagrant

The bedraggled wanderer, raised on the
old roads, at home under the trees, gaunt branches
and ashy moon, in the darkness of the night,
the stars aligned to conspire against fate,
in perfect harmony, the wind whispers of
love lost, in the wars when Ares danced
with glee upon the shoulders of warriors and angels,
The itinerant soul, still not gray
broken down by the falsehoods of men,
and the swill of the tavern's lust,
longing for the day when he could
gently take her in his arms again,
under the midnight sun, in the north,
far away into the wispy clouds, on top
of blue mountains, and green forests,
until the world appeared to be nothing but
and ember in the fire of the mind's eye, then
reunited, to a homestead in the delicate
tendrils of the Milky Way
And the city-states will crumble away, the
myriad towns and villages choked
with the vines and weeds of the
Mother's rage, against the madness of time
two colors coiled to become one,
and the sun will rise on a whim,
The bedraggled vagrant will awaken to swaying
of the ancient trees, no longer safe in the
black cloak of sleep,
only to walk the same path again