The Nomad

I see a nomad stuck in no man’s land

A wayward wanderer on the side of the road

And like a deer in headlights

He stands there frozen

Unable to make a decision

An illness that afflicts him

He stands there malformed like

A demon displaced from hell

He is imprisoned in an abyss of confusion

Paralyzed by his own mind

He is hidden from me

By the blackness of the distance

So I call out to him

“Sir. be you well?”

My voice ricocheted off the vastness of darkness

That escaped into the witching hour

Slowly I approach the man

He does not take notice of my presence

For he is far too busy being buried in a tower of his own indecision

Holding the key to every connecting door

Yet unable to save himself

He stands there sickly

And it looks as if he lacks the strength needed

to lift the key to his own success

So I call out to him

“Sir, be you well”

The nomad turns to me

A ghastly premonition

My skin unsure if my eyes can be trusted

Then with placing hand upon my shoulder

My spine melts

And he forces a crooked smile

And with parted lips speaks the only word

I could bear to comprehend right now

“Aye”