There are many kinds of travelers
one who promotes the art of transience
with ejubulent smiling photos atop picturesque vitas, repleat with apeing friends
sleeps undisturbed by change, in the marvel of perpetual motion
one who never travels
but hastens to add, everyone must
and enjoy it they should
for all they cannot understand, they bundle
in wistfulness and naivity
like a child imagining adulthood
the last traveler is uneasy
feeling a sorrow in changing places
the witness of other lives and roads
since earliest memory the yoke of
vacation was not to be appreciated but mourned
their comfort found in staying still
than the kalidoscope of others spin
demanding constancy and things, unable to be bequeathed
where disturbance comes, in the form of expectation
sorrow of coach stations and midway stops
grief striken as graves and road trips without gasoline
you are said to be fortunate, if you can travel often
the grateful traveler may forget
the gritty loneliness of their highway bed
never admitting they wished to return, even before they set off
belonging is a feeling, some will never attain
their search in crowds of strangers, leaves further lost than claimed
Yet no one
No one at all
Will ever admit
To being loathe to travel
TheFeatheredSleep 