and if i meet myself
along some older mile,
i will not ask why he left;
only if he’s tired,
and if he’d like to rest awhile.

there is no home
to go back to,
only the one that grows
where my feet meet the earth.

the stones i once carried
have forgotten their names;
they hum quietly now,
part of the song beneath me.

i speak less these days,
but hear more.
even silence
has learned my language.

there is no destination,
only the soft hum
of being carried,
and the faint laughter
of all the selves
he used to be.

[ iii. the return ]

the road has thinned,
worn soft by wind and weather.
i no longer seek its end,
nor trace its beginning.
each step remembers itself.

whatever it was
that used to be me.

[ii. no arrival ]

the road forgets
where it began.
each bend unspools
into another horizon;
the map a mirage
of what was never drawn.

the traveler sheds
names like leaves;
the weight of memory
turns to wind,
and still he walks,
barefoot, through his own echoes.

i carry regrets,
weighted stones
upon my back,
in my pockets,
in my shoes,
so that every step
is a reminder
of what i've had,
all that i've lost;
the price one pays,
the toll, the cost
of truly being fully
and wholly free.

i am many things,
ever evolving,
always growing,
but i am not
and cannot be

No Kings!!! Thanks, Stephen. 🤗

youtu.be/7LUVFxRc_jQ

Even the credits were top notch. 🤣

😂I was _just_ about to watch this.
\m/(>.<)\m/