The writer walked the desert sand
Midday sun high in the sky
And he realized that more often than not
There was no answer to the question why.
But he continued to travel
At his chosen rate of speed
Eating, drinking when he wanted
Even sleeping, when he felt the need.
He wrote about the ocean
And the coolness of the wet sand
Holding on to his soul delicately
As if it were a child's hand.
He laid in the meadow
As the wind caressed his face
Staring into the distance
Beyond his current time and space.
He thought of returning
Back to where he called home
But he'd miss this adventure
So he continued to roam.
One day he awoke
In a room and a soft bed
And the journey that he'd taken
Was but a memory in his head.
(c) 2014 T. LaFountain