The Wanderer in Black

I walk down an ashen cast road

With my cart full of needs

Squeaking, stamping,

Heartbeat unheard by any.

 

I was an accountant,

Before the bombs fell

And fire ate the sky

Leaving all in ruin.

 

I don’t know why I was damned

To walk these lonely wastes

A golem of sullen onyx fabric

Faceless, aimless.

 

From Boston to St. Louis, I travel the cities

Whose great buildings are now tombstones

Where loud, careless folk used to roam

Shouting, screaming, this fate not even a dream.

 

Now only the shadows whisper

But they don’t have much to say

Except for prophecies of doom

and surly judgments.

 

So what worth do I have?

A faceless stranger in black?

My sorrow goes unrequited,

My soul, it bleeds!

 

The wind barely blows anymore,

I haven’t spoken in at least a year,

Not even to myself,

My vocal cords atrophied by fear.

 

I am the wanderer in black.

I make my march towards death.

So why do I keep moving forward?

If all there can be is ash?

 

In truth, I have not explored every street,

Every building, where shy vagrants may sleep.

I may be alone now but maybe,

Just maybe one day I’ll find another.

 

Yes! Another wanderer

Dressed just like me

In their shroud of black

And their cart full of needs.

 

We could trade our wares

And take comfort in each other’s voices

Maybe wander together

Others in our path…

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