By Tom H. Brooks 3
The exile has crossed the great ocean
and he walks down a lonely road
made just for him.
He has gone very far
from everyone and everything
he has ever known,
as far as it`s possible to get,
He misses the past,
but he knows that it`s gone forever.
“You can`t go back,” he thinks to himself,
as he moves through the darkness and the light.
The past cannot be regained;
only relived in one`s own mind.
The faces of the strange, foreign land
drift by him—expressionless,
lacking all animation and/or emotion.
Most are walking zeroes, they are,
but he cares not,
for he has no interest in them anyway.
He is content alone with his thoughts—
for they are myriad,
and they continue to flow
through the endless river of time.
He misses his friends,
but sometimes feels as if
he has been forgotten.
“Outta sight, outta mind,”
isn`t that what they say?
He will continue to prosper,
to live his own life,
to have his own adventures,
to go through gateways into new worlds;
whether or not anyone cares,
he will still write the stories…
As he strolls down this quiet road
on a foggy and humid summer night,
next to a sluggish river
with its tired flow,
he thinks deep thoughts, contentedly.
As he fades into the mist,
it is as if
he had never existed at all…