Traveller's Sonnet

A travelling man's door closes too early,
Here and gone before the autumn fall,
A rootless tree, a gypsy heart weary,
Starved of love in any form at all.
Longing to knot the heart with another
But loose enough to pull it back again,
A parting kiss will set him asunder, 
Though love and passion still, with her, remain. 
He cannot follow them to where they lead, 
His map and compass have no bearing there, 
For here is a heart not built to bleed,
Only to wander any, anywhere.
The lies spun there will be returned in kind
Forever in a heart never to bind.