Setting off alone in search of a wasteland,

He traverses

Meadows, marshes, and forests,

Dreamscapes, mist, and breaths.

To the wind, he is a swaying silhouette,

To the sky, he is a lingering haze cleared by the passing day.

To the vast ocean, he is remnants of dissipating foam.

When he closes his eyes, he catches a glimpse of that wasteland,

But it is merely an illusion woven by desire.

Stepping through the ruins of time,

He continues on his journey,

In search of the next illusion.