To the Horizon and Back

Standing amidst a flickering streetlight's puddled warmth,
he stood, a solitary man, withered, his back bent by time,
holding in his hands an instrument battered and well-worn.
The people walking home stopped and stood still, listening,
as he played music telling them about the things he loved.
The notes, shivering and shuddering as he struck them on his guitar,
danced away through the evening air before dissipating into nothing.
The people swayed without realizing it, closing their eyes blissfully,
as the music swept them far away to places they'd never been.

It reminded them of train whistles, screeching like frightened ghosts,
and of the train itself, rumbling and trembling as it flew over the tracks.
It spoke to them like the wind does on a blustery autumn day,
crooning slyly, encouraging them to leave everything they knew behind.
It whispered to them in voices they'd never heard before that moment,
telling them stories about things they'd never even known existed.
It tugged and pulled at their hearts, like a child's kite pulls at its string,
yearning to fly away into the wide blue sky and never return.
It was alive, the music the man played, and it breathed life into them;
but, at the same time, it broke their hearts in the strangest of ways.

And the man played on, his shriveled fingers rushing across the strings.
He played until the stars, silver diamonds hung on spiders' webs, sparkled in the sky.
And the people stayed, listening, hungry for the life living in his music,
starving for the unadulterated freedom in the stories it told to them.
And later, when the music had finally ceased to rush from the man,
and the people returned home far past the time they normally arrived,
they were greeted with frustrated enquiries as to where they'd been for so long.
They all smiled sorrowfully, a faraway look in their eyes, and softly replied:
"I went to the horizon and back, and I wish I'd never returned."