Been down this road before
Seems to extend itself with each step made upon its hide
If there is such a thing as completion it cannot be found

The infant and the dying sharing a seamless breath
Not a single day has passed
With me wanting to get off these tracks
It is not a place of congregation; mute communion
We might have passed along the clouds
Without the recognition of two desolates

Illumination seemed less intimate than he had hoped for

The winds blow with no molecular embodiment
Yet they're cold to me, old to me
Solitude becomes a trusted party out here
In the deserts of self
Yet we do not ask for anything

Raving through the crossroads, spared of choice