In January, I had yet to walk down any paths
But, it was far to cold for venturing anyhow
And my feet were not quite made to push wind
By February however, I would scoot across the earth
Then still, I had not glanced the many roads of pass
Nor would I know about the passing clock of time
March though, was a month made for progress
And yet, no dust did I leave on the doorstep
Tracks weren't declared beneath my traveler's foot
Sweet April , A time when I would leave the nest
Quite forcefully I cast out my wings to soar like eagles
A child with no proper know in the ways of the world
So by the call of May, I was lost as yesteryear once more
The astray seek their own to comfort their lonesome silence
Disregarding that your soles muddy akin to their own
Oh June, I was ever so sure that I had found it
The road that alluded me quite long was never more
A self made man-child of sordid goals and more so ills
That by July, I had arrived at my declaration of triumph
King of Calendars, the self-run master of my path
But Black August, It swallowed me in the whole of its gullet
I wandered through a wilderness unseen and of no end
Stumbling in darkness, because my candle sparked dim
Mercy rained all September though, washed my anxious skin
Afforded hope by that from which I come, Whom I call I AM
He made my eyes hold youth and my promises not quite late
Taught me not to search for October, who's wind is ever harsh
Who's call is perhaps ten days away or gratefully more so
Though wiser and more walked, I am more evidently tired
Perhaps by November, I shall understand time's meanings
The roads I walked headstrong into misfortune and joy alike
Their place in the history of all my endless wanderings
Then in December, I will have no road nor trek to cross
For I will have left my travel bag and pen far behind
That another patron will afford to mark his own place in time
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