“Not all those who wander are lost.” J.R.R. Tolkien


Writhing heat warps the horizon

hissing dry wind grates ungrounded sand.

Illusionary waves part with each step


that takes him to his certain vague destiny.

The linen kaffiyeh frames his stoic face:

skin the hue of clay fired in the desert’s kiln


and eyes of sacred scarab’s carapace

alive with observation of the emptiness.

A brown robe hovers obediently


resting on his shoulders, tapping at his elbows

anticipating the rhythmic thrust of his knees

flaring in time for the protruding of his sandaled feet.


Daylight is his impetus.

With heritage as map,

he traces an ancient existence

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