Walking

I use to be a wanderer.

There was freedom in my feet.

I walked the ground of wilderness

Froze by the winter frost

Or muddied by the overspill

From everlasting springtime rain.

I trudged through broken cities

Over glass and casted off souls,

Between the monuments of men

Who slaved in high-rise towers

And thought that they were kings.

I’ve stepped between the raindrops

Amid a thousand falling tears

That wash these allegoric alleys,

Across the literature of years.

I’ve crossed those dreamscape boulevards

Full of screaming streaming cars

As well as dusty wagon ruts

On someone’s long forsaken field.

I’ve hiked the trails of history

The craters, heights and dates

Until I walked out of the past

And became a part of it.

You walk this earth for long enough

It starts to wear you down.

Little pings and twinges

Like wars and dirty deeds

Sap away enthusiasm

For man’s material mind

And call you to a higher plain

Where I’ll go a-wandering.






Posting here for The Gooseberry Poetry Picnic Week 14, Thanksgiving, Winter, Change, Hope.