Alone, the dusty traveler dines, spilling crumbs o’er his rhymes,
He senses in his chest at times truths that only dirt has known,
And in his pocket be two dimes, a pen and paper, and a light
That he only sheds on his words written in the darkest night.
Unsure, the sleepy traveler creeps ‘low a bridge, then he weeps,
As with his thumb a ring he keeps. Rotates it toward the right.
And through the cracks the moonlight seeps, so in his pocket his light stays,
E’en though his darkest nights are passed, on his knees tonight he prays.
Shaking, the chilly traveler words a song to him the stars rehearse,
O, to him there’s nothing worse than looking up beholding grey,
E’en at that, he never durst write other than what he knows how,
And that is what the heavens give, that is what angels endow.
Silent, the dying traveler ends his poem to his dearest friends,
Upon the chilly breeze he sends words he whispers as he bows,
And he, his soul so truly wends toward that heaven he was shown,
To that Eternal Poem from where his empty pen upon his heart has sown.