The walking dude

The walking dude

Silhouetted against the
sinking purple sun,
through the dust laden road
comes with measured strides
the walking dude…

His eyes shining amber,
his breath deep as ocean,
his gaze eating horizons
and his smile cold as a coffin…

The walking dude takes out
his ancient harmonica,
slowly he plays a tune
that blows out the living lights
of those who listens to it…

His worn out boots,
his torn sweatshirt,
his moth eaten jeans
and the deep lines on his face,
nothing betrays his age,
for he comes from the crevices
of timeless emptiness …

And what we saw
the last of him
was the trail of dust
that he left behind
his grey shadow…