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I found comfort in hope, a raw reality in regret.
And lost my way in the game of life, all my chips in on a bet.
I stared at an amaranthine desert that stretched out to the sky, and so I traveled far and wide, always questioning why?
The familiar cacophony of a nostalgic city in an apartment with my mice.
An old man in my reflection, I had to glance at it twice.
To the trickling Indian streams beneath the limbs of a maple cross, a stillness that reminded me of everything I lost.
I loved a married woman once, a home with someone else she built.
And I stood in a thunderous rain, to wash away the guilt.
And so falling ill, languished in death’s bed void of air.
I heard music in the placement of words, poetry so fair. 
And in poetry discovered an ocean that spanned beyond my thoughts.
Reached out with a pen and pad, for words that might be caught.
With beautiful glass waves, dormant mysteries, scarlet sunsets and blushing dawns, featureless calms and humility, it all so gracefully drawn.
Exquisite creatures below and above, I sketched with words and wonder.
All tangled amongst an infinite collection of the memories of a thousand years of maunder.
On a road I went, without direction so it seems.
To where a language I’ve never heard produced colors in my dreams.
To wander amongst barn-red tulips and Hawaiian blue irises, Moroccan green mint, alone and happy, as an undisturbed lake.
Sometimes the most beautiful things happen by mistake.
And to find one’s way with patience, seems a mighty feat.
And when stronger more the hunger for love than the pangs to eat.
To a view that takes away, the very breath of the wind.
And worry more for that we might believe then what is around the bend.
To catch a glimpse of God in a Brazilian slum, who gently waters a lone flower as if nurturing a newborn son.
The wine in my glass the color of her lips, humming a familiar song.
As she prepares a weary traveler a nice warm bed to long.
And sit and watch a farmer’s field slowly grow from the house on stilts.
Painted upon a canvas, one that never wilts.
Old miners rest and sip coffee, together with swollen feet.
Wishing for mine that only ache, quietly they speak.
On a road I wander on, blisters on my heels.
Love is not what the mind thinks, but what the heart feels.
And desire is only that where possibility is not a crutch.
And late in the night under a giant glowing moon, had I reached out I might have touched.
On a road.
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