A Wanderer

I'm rambling in unnamed streets,
Mind floating in the letters
Being sent, with the message of being.
Black ink on the white paper seems much real than these streets.
The trace of wandering, deep or shallow,
Straight or curve, has shaped into stanzas.
Looking at the mirror in the bathroom,
The face with shaving foam,
Is the one you once recognized?
Sometimes, you might cross into him in these streets.
Would you notice his slim figure and questioning eyes?
When everything passed through that tightly closed door,
A woman liberally devoted one night for him.
He believed that he would forget her.
Yet several years have passed on the road,
And suddenly he recalled the rusty lock of that small cabin and
The faint light from within.
He stared at the puzzle of surrounding light and shadow.
He saw the story reflected in the dream.
He has confused which is which
In the crowded light of dawn.
A wanderer walked in the city that was not belonging to him.
A different word fell down happily before he was engulfed.
A series of unfocused images of on a foreign land,
Being shot after,
Leave only the memory for missing.