God sneezed on the map where the little town lay
A product of coincidence
A beautiful, cosmic mistake

Through the wilderness of empty parking lots, yellow signs
and flickering lights
Where the air hangs with the pregnant pause of uneasy inactivity
Breeds a gentle, but passionate curiosity
that acts upon used napkins and foggy windows
and finds refuge in the mind of the Wanderer

Behold the glory of a knight
Whose throne lies at the end of a crimson carpet
At the lone booth
With the cheap mint seats

He issues his decrees
The entirety of his hopes and dreams
to the nearest beating heart
Some sleepy regular
who just wants to finish his sandwich

He quietly seeks for someone to carry
The weight of his passions
So that they might live a little longer
to see past the early fog
And carry themselves into day
latching onto the seldom beam cast
from a passing car
His dreams
an entity too large for such a meager vessel

The products of his musings
Swirl with the motion of the layer of film
atop his morning coffee that has yet to be touched
Whose purpose bears more weight in romantic promise
than its utility

The Illusion of Disastifaction comforts him
that somehow he deserves more than
Half-vacant motels and diners with
Sticky tables

He flirts with fantasy in a moor of societal cessation
As his accidental town
with its little people
and its little places
Fall victim to his big dreams