If you were happy to sit among the soil on which you stand,
Would you stay?
Or part ways?

This land among which you've found home,
Would you give it away,
and continue to roam?

Would you let another settle in this place,
Because you whole life you've only led a chase,
And fear the thought of remaining here?

Put your faith in the ground,
And you'll build a foundation most sound.
But you'd rather be done with this place of paradise,
And continue to run around.

Gliding in air
was an eerie delightful hue
hanging high above violet and blue,
for eons no one had knew,
the peon pest probing around
the howling zoo,
rhyming and roaming
hiding and hoping
flighty the ronin
ran,
groping every moment he could come to
as a token to his gallantry
the guidance to his apathy
decided to devise his only strife
to live happily

I wish I would have been a nomad,
I would have travelled to the places no one had.
I wish I was a voracious reader,
Books would have helped me to forget her.
If life would not have been such a mystery,
It would have been easy to forget my history.
I wish I was another wanderlust
In a world which seems to forget so fast.
I never wanted to be like me.
I wish I was not me!








Tanay Sengupta, Copyright © 2018. All Rights Reserved.

Just caught outside
Still broken inside
Never have I seen
What true light is like
Just caught outside
Still broken inside
I pay my dues
To Father Time

Here I stand
A nomad

Cracked road, broken road
The place that I call home
This perfect place I’ve seen
I’m undeserving
Cracked road, broken road
The only road I’ve known
The one mistake I’ve seen
Is trying

Here I stand
A nomad

I’m on my own
With no one’s heart to hold
A lonely place to be
It suits me
I’m on my own
With no one’s heart to hold
Only now do I see
This is all that’s left for me

Here I stand
A nomad

Vagabond heart;
Destined to roam.
Cursed and forsaken.
Forever alone.

I would rather
be a
wanderer
a belongerer
to no body
to no country
a loose end

​
than to bob
eagerly
at every tug
of the yarn's
end
whose
wound-up
mass
amasses me
a wriggled up
ball of
wriggles
​

I would rather
be alone
than
scooped up
in a basket
with others
of my
supposed
ilk
and held in
by the
over-under
wicker
edges
domed up
for containment
​

ominous
clicks and
scrapes
of my
destiny
clattering
and chattering
above
​

fraying
frizzled
frazzled bits
smoothing out
as my length
is tugged
up and up
like a long
slurpy
noodle
​

I would rather
be loose
and scrappy
and stumpy
and ragged
the one that
nobody loves
the discarded
refuse of a
more discerning
eye
​

than be made
surreptitiously
into somebody
else's
jumper




© 2017 Adelaide Heathfield