Traveling Scribe

"A broken heart can never mend when the piece that's missing is a friend"
---


You may see him wandering around someday and you won't know what to think
A bag, he'll have strapped onto his back, that's filled full with parchment and of ink

Always to take these with him, wherever he may roam
He never has a destination, nor does he have a place called home

The parchment that he carries is of an ordinary kind
It doesn't matter what he writes on, only of that which he will find

The ink, his preference is a gel, the color chosen, red
Somehow, as he'll explain, it pulls more thoughts from out his head

There are just two more items, I had not mentioned them before
The driving force behind him, what is buried in his core

They symbolize remembrance, of why he chose this way
In his bag, his head, his heart, where they will forever stay

He shall have these there with him, of that is a sure bet
To reflect on certain moments, to give to you what he did get

Someone he carries with him, now a feeling deep inside
Who lit a fire in his heart, and from this he does not hide
____

A spool of thread, and sky blue, a color he had chose
He ties them around, for it's her color, as a reminder I suppose

A picture is also carried, he always keeps it near
Two faces are upon it, two faces he holds dear

Each item has its purpose, and these things he won't neglect
Kept safe, yes these, forever, and these things he always gives respect
____

He likes to speak to everyone, to see the stories each may share
He doesn't mind if you have questions, he'd like to see how much you care

To find the truth of your humanity, that is his only task
To find the you, the true face hidden, that you have behind the mask

You can make all your assumptions and try to guess who he might be
This man is poised, unique, quite different, above all things he's truly free

He walks from one place to the next, he does this each and every day
He doesn't mind that you are staring, or of him what you will say

For his heart, it's there to guide him, and always he lets it lead
Very odd to some, I'd gather, very odd to some indeed

Please do not think ill of him, he walks upon an open road
Partake in him of conversation, for words of wisdom, words of gold

You shall find there is morality, and this makes him not a fool
It is a code he always lives by, that code is called The Golden Rule

He travels all around, for he wants to share his skill
In time, you'll come to learn his name, and that name is Hercule Will

Author's Note

Follow-up to "Talking to my Feet"