Travelweary

My weary feet ache for rest
And my tired eyes can barely see,
Blinded by the dust of the road,
How far ahead the road winds-
Shimmering into indistinct lines
Near the horizon, but a hazy mass
Of red dust and dusty trees.

A happy home lies far behind,
Days of languid beauty, comfort, shelter,
The solemn sweetness of safety.
No more mine, that simple life;
No longer any right to call that house mine.
I’ve torn away my wretched soul
And must now rid its longing for sanctuary.

How far, I wonder, to the nearest inn?
How far to food and rest?
How far for me to think up a tale
That might for my dinner pay?
Too hale to be ill, too young to be decrepit...
Mayhap the truth will tonight suffice
For a loaf and a blanket in the hay.

Then, up, tomorrow, and again the road,
And on and on and on.
These wretched boots won’t last more miles
Nor this wretched life many moons.
A vagabond’s death, then, by the road,
A pauper’s funeral, if the authorities oblige,
An unmarked grave in which to lie.

Wanderlust

Far away the road beckons,
But a twisted strip of metal
Glinting in the light of the setting sun.
Alluring and ever tempting,
The way to a thousand dreams.

A thousand voices, clamouring to be heard.
A thousand lives; a thousand tales
Hidden under the paving stones,
Written in the dust of a thousand feet
That, over the years, have passed on their way.

Home, safety, security’s shining shackles,
So tightly locked, to keep in place,
To hold imprisoned, forever,
A wanderer’s spirit,
Chafe my skin, draw my blood.

The lure of the road,
An eternal siren song, ever lurking
In the dark recesses of my mind,
Colours my dreams,
Tinges my days with never-fulfilled longing.

The humdrum monotony of daily life,
Meaningless, mechanical chores,
Stifling, senseless work.
What life is this, when, in twenty years,
Not one day have I truly lived?

The sweet beckoning of far-off lands,
The heady call of adventures,
Draw me away this dark night,
Ever whispering in my ears, of
Laurel wreaths and golden treasures.