Traveler

In rags we find our prophets...

This storm has passed me by
left a lonely hollow road behind
Weathered away the ugly gray
and what was then revealed was gold.

A traveller along the path had said,
As he laid to rest his weary head,
'only feed the flesh when the soul's been fed,
and the truth is given, and never sold.'

The dirt beneath his finger nails
Showed the color of rusty rails
That he had walked for walkings sake to tell
How walking had somehow saved his soul.

Time had changed his face
As he made his way from place to place
Searching the earth in a meditative grace
And as his body withered his heart had grown.

It was there, then, in early November
The police had found a decrepid member
Along the tracks aside burning embers
His jeweled palace made of gold.