Where?

With morning's gentle breeze 
trampling the roses of a fresh born dew, 
I head down a golden highway, 
whose edges are mists of a silver hue.  

Resting near a weathered milestone 
high above a ravenous gorge, 
I look down upon the flow 
of a river's fervent urge  

Waving off a silent night, 
onward from a mystic cave, 
it searches for a salty sea. 
Thus shall I find a bitter grave?  

Alone with the time that ticks 
towards the end of my travels 
till a wind from behind the hill rises 
and my "Where?" for now, unravels.