Within our party, a member of our group,

Walked a dreamer, as pale as clam soup,

With glasses thick over eyes of aquamarine,

His body tall, lanky, and lean,

An archaeologist by trade, thirty in years,

Yet looking as young as last summer's pears

In that he appeared half his age,

Making it difficult indeed to gauge.

His hair a messy mop of brown,

And a mouth halftimes in a frown,

As true thinkers (for this was what he was)

Are wont to do, just because

Of the weight they bear, the vastness of the space

Resting firmly in it's proper place

Between the ears, though no fool was he,

For in this cell of mental might,

Stirred and burned a precious light,

The spark of the Divine, the charge of power

Of Creativity, that noble sower

Of ideas and insights to brighten minds

Where in soil of thought the wording finds.

He spread his seed throughout the world,

Using the Net as a banner unfurled

To show the readers of online stature,

His writings and thoughts on human nature

Through discoveries of rock and bone,

The nuances of which only experiences hone.

Though young in years, his eyes betrayed,

A sagely wisdom, from being preyed

Upon by demons of pain, sadness

Sorrow the led to assessing

The true nature of life itself,

And philosophy from every shelf

For such as these know no such thing

As just a rock or pottery, thinking

The maybes that always come to the wise

He brooded long and hard, though do not surmise,

The chap was rude and wicked, but instead

Treated all with a courteous respect,

Offering help and intersect

In arguments between our fellow

Pilgrims, his cool head allowing tempers to mellow.

He enjoyed talking of joy and discussing all

Subjects of note, as to his beck and call

Was knowledge thousands of books and years worth,

And readily available to be called forth

In case of need of some obscure fact

(Delivered with practical tact).

His attire was simple, hardly worth mentioning,

A black T-shirt, baggy jeans, and jacket petitioning

Relative untidiness, as he'd been around,

A pilgrim to many, an explorer of the ground

And sea and sky, their secrets he'd learned from book and sight

And always a pleasant gentleman, with intent always bright.

I fear, myself, that the female half of our gang,

Are looking upon him with interest sang

In winks and looks and hidden giggles,

(The poor lad has no idea what wriggles),

For resembling a pretty boy who attracts a vile

Hoard of fan-girls, who all the while

Plot to devour such boys as he, like a Saxon

Hoard. Better run now, Daniel Jackson.