Anyone to critique this piece?

The place I cherish the most doesn’t exist. I have to create it in my head like a painter splashes color onto his canvas and sells the painting to a perby on the street. And when the perby takes it home and frames it on his wall, what does he see but moonbeams streaming down like tears to light the way for the weary traveler. Who knows what the traveler thinks or why he endures or where his destination is or when he will arrive to safety. Does he see the danger ahead or the fork in the road? What then? Will not some constructed form of destiny intervene? The perby doubts—it is hard to discern the figure of salvation through the shadows of tall yews. But the cirstance of the traveler instructs him to know better; redemption from the bleak winter night moves in like a sudden fog and wraps him in a blanket of dream to deliver him into warmth. The perby, distracted by the glow of a sunset or shape of cloud, leaves the scene to encounter other whispers of life.