the traveler

a road not made for travelers
a road unmarked, unknown, unswept
yet his feet have walked its dusty lengths
a steady, measured pace they've kept

his steps are brash and strong, like fools
who've never seen the ends of roads
the paths that lead to a lonely place
the paths where a wise man never goes

a street unlit, like a clouded sky
a street never clean; a shroud of dust
floats here and there to beckon the blind,
to warn the cautious, and taunt the lost

i fear the way of wishful thought
though my fickle heart knows every turn
of the trail that twists 'round rock and tree
of the trail that makes my dry lungs burn

the old wood splinters against my hands,
tearing at flesh and mind and soul
the dust attacks my light-cursed eyes,
burning like freshly kindled coal

 but a gentle hand touches my shoulder, to guide me,
 and a cloth soaked in love caresses my skin
 and my dark, filthy feet are washed clean in the pouring
 of the water that cleanses this companion of sin