The Road to Nowhere

On a lovely day out another way the foggy streets were thick with smog and writh. A horse stood idle outside the title of boards, and broom, and smick. A man walked by, smiled, said "hi" and waved towards the bench sitters outside. A young lad sat squirming, an old man, burning. Waiting for someone, or nitch a messanger fitch. The moon was out, without a doubt. It was lovely, bright, and lit.  

"Why do I always want what I cannot have?" asked the lad to his elder so quick. They sat outside on a bench beside the tree that bore bright orange felders. He was squirmy and wormy and stitch, as he sat awaiting his answer from the old man, the lad on the bench. 

"Tis human nature to crave what you can't have my dear lad." Said the elder man so wise. He pickled his thoughts and his eyes were quite squinty and sized. He sat with his beard so slumped in his lap and his scoffscuffer scarf folded over his map. He sat without reason. To ponder. To burn. He glared at the moon. Because only she knows the lessons he'd learned. 

"But my love burns in my heart. I can't wait. I can't wait. I must have her, my own, this very day. You really must know sir for my impatience makes me hurt so. I sit and I squirm and I worm and I writh. I feel crazily out of a sum of grand myths."

"So it is. So it be.. You will hurt forever so sir. Love is not perfect. Nor does it fix, a heart which is lonely. Now get on with your glitch. Move it along, away and unsure. You will never know, what it's like to endure." He walked on, his cain in his hand afar to a distant and new other land. The lad sat and pondered the mans term "endure". 

A glitterty mitch joggled up in a hurry. He jiggled his jaw and translated all furry.. To tell the young lad, what ole man, did not, the moon sent a message through the Glittery mitch called Sir Glibbilty Glotch. "To wait to anticipate just watch. To anticipate to burn. To burn is to hurt. To hurt is to want. To want is to fix a desire you crave for what reason.. to fix.. But there is no fixing, what you cannot see. Someone contented, for things to just, be." Sir Glibbilty Glotch joggled away with the lark. The messanger fitch flew by in a snitch. 

A small whisper fell over the smog while the virus within the lad grew quite strong. The turtles and frogs all jumped off of their logs and the trees spoke stories of sad stricken bogs. Enduring true, time waits for no man to fall late. All is in seasons but you must know nature to be kept with her secrets. All is in rhyme and time is in tyme. The still voice of nature crept up, through his spine. 

"I have not the patience, the time, nor the whit. To tolerate waiting for this thing, I must fix. My love is so heavy my heart aches with weight. I cannot be kept longing, forever, in vain." He ran for the hills away and went mad, for he was never quite sure, what it was, to be glad. He was never quite sure what it meant to love true. For he'd nor loved himself tis sad, it tis blue. Trying to fix, a glitch, which just could not be fixed. Should he tell his love, he cannot fashion a nix? He shant live without her nor breath a stitch? The old man had loved and never had told. His lady nor heard those sweet ole words, nor the verb of "love" fall from his lips. He spent his whole life, pickling the thought, "What if to endure, was just a big scoff?".

The young lad held in his secret, which was so bright. For he was frightened with all of his might. He could be happy, Oh no! What a fright! He didn't tell her and chose to endure. The words of the ancient, endure time, endure. Tell the truth? Bah, no globby glob shall fall off my tongue! If tis meant to be, shall it be. Shall it be? Time can be nasty, mean, and unfair. So, really, you can't ever be sure if you're going no where.