Solitary wanderers, our paths at times will cross, lonely
Though our travels are, we stand against timelessness,
Roaming souls in transit sometimes meeting on the roads hard
Worn by bare feet, decrepit shoes, fallen weapons and
The dead words of lost rulers, heard by wanderers only.
Transient creatures, we are frozen as insects in amber
Moving within the treacle of cycles that encompass life,
Death, a curse unbroken like the ring of marriage, encircling
All that we know, this unholy circle that we seek to break
By bringing it to fullness, whether wished for by others or not.
Our purposes were waylaid, displaced and transplanted
By the drive that surrounds, leeches into the world of others,
Infected realms of crumbling elder lore with little meaning
For those who would read them are gone, or mad, and we
Stalk on, old lives lost and the mantle of new purpose embraced.