The Traveler

My aching feet tread miles of snow.

I lose myself on mountain road.

My teary eyes, they salt the sea: 

An ocean of my tragedy.

My brittle bones, they turn to dust

And float through wind with wanderlust.

My ancient mind, it turns to stone.

It knows no bounds; it holds no throne.

My broken heart, it fills with sand

And seeps from cracks within my hand.

My empty soul, with all its grace,

Sinks to its final resting place.

My memory, like fallen leaves, 

Forgotten waste beneath the trees.

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