The Question Man

There goes the question man. See how he walks? Deliberate, and not like others ...not at all. His lust, unlike our own, is for the shadows right and sinister; they play a different melody for him. They seem to sing of soft excursion, tasting of an eastern shore already redolent of Asian mystery. He is the question man...he seeks, not struts, for wealth is not ahead of him, but dancing by his side. How singular his pride of heritage laid down by books, not blood, an overwhelming flood of curiosity that sends him off to islands where the tradewinds call, and he may answer with a spirit song. His prize is in the quest, his being filled not with desire, but with the fullness of Matisse, black hair down to the waist, bare footprints on the beach, the crinkled pages placed most carefully beside the mythic bed, and left there for a maiden fond of dreaming, longing for a different strand another midnight might disclose. So much for the question man who walks his magical domain within the crystal globe upon his desk. So much for nostrums in the wake of shipping lanes that cloud its clarity. It is the questionning that drives romance, and not its appetite. It is the dance unending that will breathe the tropic splendor of the night ~