The Traveller

#The Traveller

  It's a little less comforting out in the wildwood,

  Building my home out here where no Child should,

  Holding my own

  Where the wolfish packs roam,

  And no god nor angel may find me.

  

  But in this deep dark with the salt and the thistles,

  I sing me my psalms and I write my epistles,

  Lighting my way

  With the last dregs of day,

  So no heavenly light may blind me

  

  Come rest with me, traveller, come share my supper.

  You think that you know me, but dare not to utter–

  (Tongue made of lead)

  The names ring in your head,

  But I swear, they never defined me

  

  I once, long ago, was not so different from thee.

  I knelt and I prayed and I sacrificed humbly,

  Feet made of clay

  And a heart trapped half-way

  ‘Tween fear and the fool who designed me.

  

  So now that you've met me, do I make you tremble?

  Am I still that Snake you've been told I resemble?

  I'm only a man;

  I've no grand, arcane plan,

  And no love for those who've enshrined me.

  

  So here is your Choice, lonely traveller, listen.

  Stay just where you are in that soft, silken prison,

  Kept on a shelf.

  Or, be true to Thineself

  And tell hell itself “Get behind me!”

  

  

  

Feedback:1 | 2

  

More Poetry from Lana:

Last Light

INTER/leaved

Stars (through the whiskey-grey

Oil

3 Word-Sonnets

Every 29 Hours

Excerpts From A Voicemail

On Mortality, December 1980

Chambers Street

On Regret

The Man of Châlons

Beast

Silence Is.

The Day I Caught The Sun

Nearly Zero