Life of the Traveling Pilgrim

Slipping through my fingers
like the sand on which
I have walked beneath
moonlit nights.

Futile as grasping for
formless mist rising into
the sunlit morning
disappearing like a ghost
into the ether.

To be the traveling pilgrim
shaking the dust from my feet
beating dust out of my clothes
washing dust from my hair
leaving behind a city
of dreams realized.