The Lord of the Road in the Kingdom of Hay

When you’re the Lord Of the Road,
You’re always leaving something behind,

A lock of hair, a trinket, a memory, or something
Deeper that was meant to be forever.

But you can’t fight your own nature, and I feel,
I feel the rush of the wind that blows my hair gray,

The change of scenery, from mountains to sea,
And the knowledge that this life is mine, all mine.

With that said,

You can always smell it before you see it.
There is no sneaking up on me, not the hay.

The land grows flat and green, those long stalks
Beg me to stop and stroll, but before I respond,

It’s gone. The machines have ripped them out,
Rolled them up and stacked them miles wide.

He comes out to greet me, hand in the air.
The Ruler in the Kingdom of Hay.

I pay my respects; for all that he stands for,
A long life lived well and the cares of a Wife.

Her golden flowing hair blows in the wind,
And her scent fights the grass to whisper to me.

The king smiles, remembers what it’s like to be young,
And to wander the Earth before he settled on a life.

They turn from me and walk away, they’re hands entwined,
On the way home. To creature comforts and childish delights.

I see myself through his eyes, and feel his sadness,
His sameness. Too bad. That’s his life; it’s not mine.