And yet there were travelers, all of the eyes,
the minds, the plays, the laughter that contained
an avenue of freedom inside quiet minds, sighs,
while everywhere around a humanity maintained.
Where have they all gone, the inspiration, surreal
is the occasional dreamer who steps inside wonder
only toward the stranger that perhaps might feel
questioned, in an accentuated fog of a hereafter.
Perhaps if we might contain each story’s beginning
to reach the end, all of the internal warfare being
forgotten while nostalgic, the dreamer again did sing
a sorrowful melody of some melancholy meandering.
Oh, now there is a silent road ahead where people muse
we imagine an emptiness filled by travelers we amuse.
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