Walking Man

His eyes tell the tale we can read from the lines on his face. A long, wearisome journey with connections in many a’place. Some must've been favored destinations, for their shadows are grooves, dug deep. Or perhaps mistakes repeated; tear tracks carved in his sleep. His smile whispers in parenthesis, a hushed, mischievous wink…the hash marks between noble brow not from anger but from how oft he'd think. You'd assume the skin would settle smooth, being stretched so tightly over sharp bones. Yet somehow it mimics the river flowing over and under stone. Those pale eyes have shed waterfalls of sorrow and also delight… He's seen his share of darkness, and still he stretches his chin to the light.