Traveler Without Rucksack

Traveler Without Rucksack By Sy Roth Aloneness, the traveler without rucksack Beats the miles into your feet A bare necessity for the nomad For there are morns and sinking suns to see In the endless desert of our lives. The arroyo quickly fills, Water tearing at its sides Soon only a vestige of itself Leaving a vacuity within. It lingers there like a smug cat Who only hisses at your approach, Razor-sharp teeth a frightening calligraphy Of life well-worn along its edges Slogging through unshared moments Pining for those who made The last attempt to bamboozle Beelzebub. We are all the omnivores who came before us A marching parade of victims of inanities Searching for silent answers To the mystery on a congress of slime That metastasizes into beings of promise Who lose it ultimately in the miasma of time. Build a brocade of flesh Soon to be assimilated into nothingness Await the temporal For the intemperate readies to swallow you whole No Bhagavad Gita guides you, No ethical core to take you anywhere Except to revel in a morn And settle into a final, waning sun.