The Journey and the Man
As a man scrambles up a steep mount side
He aims for the highest point
The most desolate of destinations
Where the trees dare not to grow
And the grass barely graces his soles
His muscles begin to ache
They throb tightly against his skin
His lungs start to stretch themselves weak
As the thin air begins to swirls his clouded thoughts
He starts to forget the reasons he climbs at all
He has walked this world alone
For forever or so it seems
Without cause, or rules, or regret
“Is there a price to pay for this?”
He worries…
“I live fully, and free, and glad”
He can see the ridge he struggles for
It’s non-descript, and bland, yet great
“I should be seeking the meaning of life”
He considers…
“But then what else is left to find?”
He crawls for the last few steps
And sits alone amongst the loneliest of stones
Too tired to be relieved
Insignificantly he stares in wonder
Across the vastness of land, of water, and of snow
He closes his dry, weary eyes
Presses his tongue between his teeth
He sharply bites to the point of pain
And not all too sure why
Hoping to find proof of his existence, or presence, or life, perhaps
He started this journey blindly
Not knowing why, or where, or what
He’s had no destination, or goals, or sights
What is it that he looks for?
Is it love, or lust, or just a reason for his life?
He feels the warm morning sun on his arid skin
“It’s not the destination that matters,”
He says as he finally understands
“It’s the journey, the struggle, the fight”
“That makes a man a man.”
As he carefully draws downward he realizes
That not wealth, nor goods, nor power
Can provide what the journey has
And not jail, nor shackles, nor death
Can take the journey from its man