I packed my things and left;
On any lonely path I trekked.
On the street bed I slept.
For a while I thought I had
Everything I had dreamt.
It was a twelve-hour non-stop trek,
Whose purpose has never come to my head.
They roamed on the lonely paths
Like formidable societal rejects.
Suspicious walks and regular puffs
Asking why he protects
Only the proud counterparts
It was a twelve-hour non-stop trek
Whose purpose has never come to my head
When it was late in the night I thought
That my sleep could be found
Alongside the road in any empty kiosk
He was there, the sack bound
Up-and-down, breathal force
It was a twelve-hour non-stop trek
Whose purpose has never come to my head
©Simon21
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