Wednesday, April 23, 2008

Lost Traveller

By: Michael Akerman


On the cobblestone street
That I tread on my way
The weary old traveler
Lies sleeping each day.

His clothes were once rich,
But now lay in rags.
His possessions are meager,
In just two small bags.

A battered old lute
Rests with nary a string
With no cover, no draping
To prevent weather's sting.

Curious one day,
I glanced in his eye.
There the fire of genius
Lay waiting to die.

He closed his eyes, dreaming,
As if lost in the past
When his cards had been dealt
And his die had been cast.

"Excuse me," I stated,
"But I can't help but wonder
How you came to this streetside
And the weight you live under."

He smiled up thinly
To acknowledge my sight
And nodded to tell me
My inference was right.

"Life is fickle, my friend,
But more so is fame.
While luck may come quickly
It leaves as it came.

It's true I was famous,
My name knew renown,
But my muse, she soon fled me
And my pen was set down.

My patrons forgot me,
My music ceased playing.
Those who said that they loved me
Could not bother with staying.

While glory may seem fine,
Those you find there aren't true.
They don't stay beside you
When you're feeling blue.

True friends are faithful
And in hardship, steadfast:
You'll find them in those
Who care naught for your past."

I sat with him a while
And thanked him for his time,
And walked away thinking
That his words were sublime.

For he had seen truth
When he fell to his distress,
And I hoped, through my work,
That his words would live, endless.