I am a traveler
Toeing a line of sought fulfillment,
A volatile vagrant.

My hands, wrapped in the halo
Of a golden lion’s mane,
Touch intangible happiness.

But my fingertips also graze
The bare slate wall
Of sheer uncertainty.

I am a flightless vagabond,
Guided by leathery maps
Crinkled by tradition and money.
There is no compass rose.

Someday.
Someday I will hold a compass in my palm,
Do away with folded maps,
The same old paths,
Vanished.

And then the arrow
Shall guide my hands
To mold my own course,
North, South, East, and West.

I am a wanderer,
Lusting after winding roads
Unfound but by inner direction.