Journeys begin with the smallest of steps,
Infinite, countless tiny steps.
Lives are spent chasing down dreams.
Most settle with the barest of dreams,
On their wishlist.
They believe they’ve reached their destinations.
Shortchanged? Premature? Tunnel vision? Lost?
Guess we’ll never know.
Just because you reach a destination,
Doesn’t mean the journey is complete.
Then there are the wanderers,
Blending with time and space,
Thrown off the path,
They set out to carve and mark their place,
Only left turning in circles,
Eyes wide open taking in the sights,
No longer certain if they’ve fallen or risen,
Questioning their purpose, their very existence.
Feeling like the Universe’s exclusive jester,
Entertaining the whims and fancies,
Of a world blinded and deafened,
By the misery that’s torn it asunder.
Where hope is a rare sight, but a cherished one.
And so the wanderer wanders,
Where all the sights and sounds,
That once was home,
Is nothing but a fading mirage,
Slowly and steadily pulling the welcome mat,
Out from under the wanderer’s feet.
How do you find your way?
When the only way you’ve travelled, turns foreign?
Wanderers make the best storytellers.
It’s not their wisdom,
But the strife they hide behind twinkling smiles,
And in long strides, and supposed blasé attitudes,
That makes the tales of their journeys,
Timeless and worth the while.
They belong nowhere and to none,
Yet the world belongs to them.