To fellow travelers

My pecking on the keyboard grew sparser. 
My fingers, what have they touched 
that is better than writing? 
Maybe experience, too ugly and 
clichéd to be in a poem. 
But surely it takes 
a long time to wash it off. 
Maybe a sadness that is regular 
or a happiness which isn't particular
To note it down as an important 
signpost to other travelers. 
Maybe they are wiping the sweat off  
as the Sun beats its heated drum 
and a mirage trembles at a distance. 

There is silence spread out on roads 
guarded by stern afternoon trees. 
A throat is cleared to suggest 
lines that were long impending. 
Scribble I do, like a hurried moth 
Then follows an ant like editing. 
And the long line of my mistakes
ends up in a hill yet to be scaled.