I am not you,
You’re not me.
Lucky so lucky,
As a horseshoe can be.
Hanging on the door,
Pointing toward the Sun.
As I toil and ponder,
Which way the road can run.
Up over the mountain,
Or into the well.
Each day is a story,
A story only I can tell.
Show me a picture,
I ask you one day.
You merely hang there,
Suspended all day.
Nothing forthcoming,
For the traveller within me.
Thirsty and ragged,
From all the roads that ran dry.
Some feature waterfalls,
Or rapids rushing white.
Cascading over mountains,
Crashing on rocks.
Rippling through rivers,
In warm currents that flow.
Silently still,
Or rambunctiously loud.
So many places,
All in the mind.
Regardless of the structures,
Close by or far beyond.
Pointing in one direction,
As you sit and frown toward murky ponds.
You’ll never bring me luck,
That much I know.
For you simply hang there,
While my feet continue along.
Walking over pebbles that may or may not obstruct my path,
Over valleys, through sands, toward many mountains.
Always on the move,
In a circadian fashion.
