The Trip As the sun hangs in the midday sky The black ghost of a figure passes. Footprints in the frail, dead soil, Evidence of toil. Yet as quickly as they appear, they disappear; The cruel wind unforgiving. He walks so that others may forget, And walks so he can remember, All the pain and sorrow, past and present; All his untold stories laid bare at his feet. The great white sword he carries on his back, A burden to him and those around him. This burden his to own, His, and his alone, Tainted with the blood of enemies and friends. Always eager to unequip, To dig his great sword into the spoilt earth. However, he knows this is not possible. All the misery it would cause, All the people it would hurt, The great scar left on our world. The path ahead is long and unmapped But he knows it is never ending. No one to return to. Nowhere to call home. Nowhere but the road ahead. Forever moving on, Yet always standing still. Another step taken, Another cruel memory irritates him. It's fate the same as the footprints in the soul. The sun is low now, But the heat still high. Time stands still; If only for a second. He continues on. A solitary bead runs down his face.