The Wanderer

October 8, 2011
The Wanderer wanders.
Enlightened, I know.
The Wanderer wishes he had somewhere to go.
Somewhere to stop
Somewhere to rest.
Somewhere to drink
Somewhere to jest.
But the Wanderer never stops.
He is barefoot now.
From years of walking,
Town to town.
Gnarled feet in his shoes
Holes bored and material frayed
A place to rest, for the Wanderer, I prayed.
The Wanderer is old?
The Wanderer is young?
No one knows what he will become.
No one knows what he already became
No one knows his destination, his aim.
For no one has ever bothered to ask
As dirt coats his face,
The unintentional mask.
Fear of confrontation
Is a rather strong force,
But I’d like to know the Wanderer’s story
Of course.
I’d like to know
How he gets through the day.
With only his zippered backpack
Never to stray.
I’d like to know
If he loves, what he craves.
I’d like to know
How he gets through the days.
Maybe he does have an aim.
Maybe I missed it again and again.
Maybe we all did.
Maybe it’s true.
That all of us, should envy you.
Should envy he who wanders
With a smile on his face.
Should envy he who wanders
Choosing his own pace.

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