Stories and Lies
I saw her. She was walking so alone.
The road was long, and lasted all her days.
She would, I knew, then grow so weary sore
Of walking, long before that endless road
Then curved off into distance far beyond.
The road was heading on towards some place
Beyond the maps we knew she’d never see.
She’d only hear the stories people told
Of distant places, tales from travellers
Much like me. Stories told by wanderers
All like me, who can merely tell these lies,
That only ever fail to bring back here
Those distant places with our telling tales
The stories leaving them so far away
As clouds that float out far beyond the grasp
Those reaching fingers ever stretch to touch,
To only hold the empty air, or dreams
That fade to nothing in the morning sun.