Forgotten Traveler

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
written from 2 perspectives, about an encounter i had about 2 years ago.

Submitted: June 27, 2011

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Submitted: June 27, 2011



Creative is the mind of this traveler,
lost soul amungst the earth,
given a second set of rules and standards,
since my day of birth.

not known for my talent,
tho art i do possess,
cause no one really cares,
when they smell the liquer on ur breath.

I saw him on the 5:15,
his hat brim pulled down low,
his scruffy rugged unshaven face,
revealed more "hidden" pain then i think hed like to show.

i sat down there beside him,
where no one dared to be,
extending my hand toward him,
as he reached his out towards me.

She had a kind gentle soul,
it burned deep within her eyes,
she sat down there beside me,
much to my surprise.

we exchanged simple formalities,
i thought that all to be,
then this brown eyed smiling little girl,
began to question me.

"Where ya headed?" i asked the stranger,
in a soft and easy tone,
he peered up from beneath his hat,
and replyed "im headed home".

i didnt have to poke or prod,
he began to tell me more,
"these old bones have seen the world,
they're tired and they're sore."

Ive been to arizona,
walked for miles in the heat,
but parched mouth was well worth it,
to feel the canyon beneath my feet.

ive been to new york city,
lived there for quite a bit,
heart set to be a famous artist,
but never did make it rich."

He reached into his jacket,
and pulled out a hidden flask,
swigged away his memmories,
then continued before i could ask.

"and ive been to washington,
flown to the cape and maine,
thumbed to mississippi, new orleans,
most say that im insane."

"youve been to all these amazing places,
traveled coast to coast,
but of all the beds uve layed ur head,
where do you like to be the most?"

He pondered for a moment,
stareing blankly into space,
then he turned his head towards me,
eyes looking over every inch of my face.

"i do believe of all the seas, of all the sights ive seen,
of all the mountain ranges, and every vallie green,
of every city street mural with a story to be told,
of any northern light show with clors vivid bright and bold,
and of any sun in santa fe that feels 1000 degree,
i do believe ive never felt more at home than i do rite now with you and me."

The bus slowed to a stop,
and the driver called the street,
reached out his hand for a goodbye,
as simple as our greet.

the scent of whisky lingered,
well after he had went away,
and the story of a forgotten traveler,
sticks with me still today.

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