A Quick Tale

 

On a dusty track through a dusty mind
Shallow footprints tracked through time
He follows them to see what he’ll find
When he reaches the horizons line

A beaten path through thick bush land
Never farmed by any hand
Holding aloft a burning brand
A weary traveller in clothes once grand

In a large grass covered clearing
With the sun overhead baking, searing
Listening close to the voice he’s hearing
This great journey’s end is nearing

On a rivers shore of pale stones
Stands a figure all alone
Dull in colour like sun bleached bone
No longer does the traveller roam

©Aarron Mondello
8/5/2018