PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Bathed in the flexing air of the mid-afternoon's heat,
a merchant plodded forward beneath the bulging of his wares.
He struggled with his footing and knew only gravel here;
not quite roads, nor paths - hardly a place fit for man,
even one such as he, who'd seen so many things, and been
so many places. There were no beasts for carried burdens,
no grunts to pave his waywardness and
no government for bumbling or posting of the signs.
And lo, this poor man's trader had no value for those so few
who'd seen his candor, pulling forward, crossing desert strands.
He'd only found and peddled thus these trinkets, worn and 'bused,
that called upon their darkest thoughts and turned them inward, soundless.
Politely they, with softest tone, deny his offered purchase -
subjected to, as departed, his deepening despair.
He thins as he's embroiled in the innards of the landscape;
dripping sweat and leaking blood with every flicking pebble thrown.
With no curses for the terrain on tongue, he goes,
searching for the customers he so desperately desires,
subsisting on the cast offs of the buzzards dwelt above.
He dreams of stretches, level ground, that do not harm his toes,
but continues on, through pointlessness,
as pointlessness is all he's ever known.