Six thousand years
For hundreds of generations
I have traveled the land.
For trudging so long in a pasture
that has no fruit, why should it be grand?
I am not among the living, yet I cannot die.
Why was I sent here? Why am I the one?
In this vast expanse I am nothing but a fly.
A small speck in something much more.
A paw lays down on the soft earth.
I can see the moss crumple.
Crushed beneath a higher force.
Just like me: not match for the higher girth.
The paw lifts, and so set foot on another.
Was this what had happened to me?
Just a patch of moss that the higher just trudged
upon by accident? That was it?
I don't care. I am not free.
Power is what I have: yet have nothing that matters.
I want a home, a family, a . . .
I gaze up at the stars, and see a face smile back down at me. I smile back.
They shine all the brighter.
I felt alive then. I had a purpose.
Yes, the wanderer now had a purpose,
One that I have done for six thousand years.
Be what I wanted: just a friend, and no more.