Following you all these years
thinking that perhaps I would
one day overtake you on this
wandering path travelled so long.
I never did make it to Bethlehem
nor kept any other of the
hundred promises that I've made
to so many, some spoken aloud
and some made silently.
Of all the lives these other
pilgrims say I have touched,
I never could seem to
touch yours.
I am old now, and weary
of the sands and the winds,
beautiful as they are I
am sure that they also
have tired of me.
Where is there left to go?
I know now that I will never
find you, will never
be found by you,
weeping on the edge
of some oasis.
I have no answers
to my own questions
nor do I think does
anyone else upon this
road that leads where
all others do.