The Walker

The walker goes on his way.
The dreamer, the watcher.
Leaves shrivel and flowers wither,
Under his neverending footsteps.

The walker sees all that is to be seen.
Omnipresent he may appear.
He cares for nobody.
Inciting no joy, only a foreboding fear.

He tramples Mother Earth disdainfully,
As he searches for his destination.
Long has he explored, never to find it.
Ever will he search, all of creation.

The path to freedom is not to be found.
His will begs him to end the trauma,
His refusal is instant, the soul is still incomplete.
Endless will his quest be if it is unfound.

What is it that he hopes to find?
What is that final destination?
It is unlikely that his observers can fathom.
Doubtful still, that he knows for himself.

The walker fears no death, only welcomes it.
For it is that which shall put him out of his misery.
He requires and demands no quiescence,
The road does not end till it is found.

The walker goes on his way.
The dreamer, the watcher.
Unconcerned and perfunctory.
His quest is still incomplete.