Stagnant,
not “the old water after it rains,”
but Stagnant water,
still puddles, leaving traces of
raindrops drumming the pavement,
millions of droplets illuminated under the streetlights,
dancing with the wind
now Stagnant,
dull, left there for days,
unmoving and nowhere to go.
Stagnating, he says,
you’re Stagnating,
caught up in the routine of school days
letting them control you and you’re
encaged still and that’s no good
when your heart is aching from yearning
in trying to figure it all out,
to make sense of your thoughts
you go to the Promenade
not “the walkway next to the highway called the Belt Parkway,”
it’s a Promenade,
a word you can sing
as you stand hand pressed against the railway,
leaning over to catch the salty scent of the sea
that somehow wraps around the globe
leading anywhere and everywhere,
holding the dreams of your
Wanderlust
a self explanatory word that
doesn’t come close to conveying
your desire to do more
than sit in front of your computer at 2 in the morning
looking at pictures of the northern lights
the beautiful reflection of salar de uyuni,
japanese lantern festival, and wonder
will these all be
nothing more than a string of words?