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.