Thirty-seven trips now,
Around the Sun...
Still,.. I am found wanting.
True in form and practice,
To my line, my heritage...
The Lost, or, the Missing,..
The Ones Lacking,.. Or Off.
The day of naming did too find us.
Difficult, hard to be certain of,
My line was to be rated and unwelcomed.
Undefined yet equally undiminished,
Our ways far too confusing,
Unconforming, unlike my shoes
To this, Her stone road.
Stretching out and on
To meet with the earth and the sky.
The birthing grounds of tomorrows,
And that realm of possibilities
made maybe's.
In one direction
do his strides consume
distance measured in footstep
After unwavering footstep.
The man called Lost,
His line the misplaced, unwell
Insane, or simply the missing.
Follows the road as roads promise,
Direction, reasons to push on,
Whispering rewards, her smile, her acceptance.
This man known as wanting, fits the definition
For only rarely is this the way of his name...
This is the road, it's stones
Fit face to face onward,
Endless, and as uncountable
Are they, as are his questions
What if he cannot be found?
Forever out of place, unknown,..
Lost to her beautiful eyes,
or the radiant waves
Each of her smiles creates?
Could this road lead this man,
From nowhere, of nothing
To an end just as unwelcome?
This man that answers to the far off,
That knows the distant, the different...
She owes this road, placed each stone...
The toll must be hers, alone
And a test that one must satisfy,
To earn the trust, to claim such reward
As to be known, to be welcomed, to be loved
To be found perfect,
And to be wanted, for being different.
so be gentle it is still a work in progress so be gentle it is still a work in progress