Hidden low where moss runs deep,
The Traveler stirs from quiet sleep.
A simple tin, no grand disguise—
But magic lingers where it lies.
No map can mark the paths it takes,
Through whispered woods and mirrored lakes.
It waits for those who chance to see
The charm in small simplicity.
Inside, a place to leave your name—
A fleeting spark, a mark, a flame.
And if you wish, a photo too—
A glimpse of where it walked with you.
It doesn’t speak, but still, it hears
The shuffle of the passing years.
And far away, some curious eyes
Watch every post, and fantasize—
“Where next?” they wonder, soft and slow,
“Through winter hush or summer glow?”
They trace its path from screen and dream,
Like watching stars drift down a stream.
Take it with you—just a while,
Across a town, a wooded mile.
Then let it go when it feels right,
And hide it from the edge of sight.
It carries on with quiet grace,
No final stop, no resting place.
A traveling soul, small and unseen—
Part of your story, caught between.