Down the twisted roads of a forgot highway you may find a wandering man.
His calloused feet, dirty hands, and tired legs.
The places he's past are innumerable, and if you ask him, he'll remember everyone.
The old coal town with no mine. The city with towering glass but no sky. The farming town with no water.
He's looking for a place to rest, but he's never found one because on this highway you can't rest.
Only go forward.
He's seen libraries with no books and farmer markets with no food.
And everywhere he goes he does good. Making the towns a little better than when he arrived.
Cause he doesn't know where he's going or what he wants, and he may never, but he'll keep on walking cause he's sure he'll find out when he gets there.
In the distance a gunshot rings. And the man walks on blades of grass like blades of knives even when it stings.
But he never stops.
Some say he's lost. But how can you be lost when you've got nowhere to be?
Some say he wants to be free. But doesn't he already have freedom?
Road signs rust away and traffic paint fades. The Wandering Man goes on unhindered.
In the twisted and fractured horizon mirages of utopias dance.
Concrete trees with no leaves and wooden roads. Confused wildlife prance.
Every once in awhile someone will join. But just as soon as they come, they stay in some town. But the man never stops.
"Stay for awhile, get off your feet," someone says.
The Wandering Man gives a smile and a nod. "This isn't my place," he'll say before he leaves.