Leaves drop, fluttering to the earth,
a hard packed trail, narrow.
The trees are changing colors. The dirt
is cold, numbing the bare toes of the wanderer.
His feet are calloused. He has been lost
for so long, he does not notice the miles,
wearing away beneath him.
Snow falls, coating the trail with
frost. Still he travels, ignorant to the passage
of time, the evolution of nature.
His feet crack and bleed, but he does
Now spring comes, coating his feet
with mud. Flowers bloom beside the trail,
birds come to life with songs of love.
He remains blind to the life around him.
And now we welcome summer,
Sweat streams down his face. The wanderer
does not stop. He does not look
back. He does not glance to the sides. He
only looks forward.
For is this not life? Is this not how we live? Unstoppable, ignorant of those around us, plowing through them with no consideration?
We are a selfish people. We can no longer love nature. We no longer stop for pain. We must always progress, lost with no direction.
We are all wanderers.