mhall46184@aol.com
A Pilgrim Out of Time
A frail old man bent with the weight of his pack -
He seemed to be carrying a long-dead world
From around 1967 or so
Or maybe he was still looking for truth
Slowly, slowly along the diagonal
Beneath the traffic lights where eight lanes cross
But his strange trail led through another world
And of our reverence for him we paused for him
His journey was his own, his own, alone
That frail old man bent with the weight of his past
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