Traveler

The words running rampant
on slippery lips
are that he went missing,
like vapors upon a pane of glass
or the remnants of breath into a winter sky.
And he marched away into the fog
like a pompous Navajo entering the battlefield,
until reaching the fork in the road,
where he paused to think.
He was not so indelible.
With no desire to return to the rancid,
repugnant wasteland of civilization,
he turned back,
toward the land of capricious clouds in the vermillion sky,
the sands the color of fresh cantaloupe under the summer sun.
Though he knew he'd be sporadically lost,
his acuity would eventually
bring him home.