In the midst of the tempest,
In the raging of the tide.
The lone walker stands,
Looking towards the sky.
The wind lashes his cheeks,
The rain soaks to his bone,
The waves scream for his demise.
And yet he stands alone.
He is unknown to us all.
A drifter in a world bent on permanence.
His fine wear soaked,
His shoes almost afloat.
He stands unmoving,
Unyielding,
Unwilling.
We never see him,
Yet he sees and knows us all.
The land gives him no peace,
Yet the sea.
The ever angry maiden,
Gives him peace.
He walks upon her turbulent garment,
Shrouded in the Grey of her scarf.
She hates him.
He knows she does,
Yet he returns to her,
When his heart is too heavy to bear.
She despises him,
Not because he returns,
But only because she could never claim,
What she had destroyed.
The Walker,
Alone in a land
He should not have known,
Drifts to and fro,
Ever present
Ever unknown.
Returns forever more to the place of solace.
The only place he knows,
Where his body lay.
The Walker,
A drifting soul,
Covered in black,
A bleak existence,
To be endured for eternity.
Death,
To remain unknown.