The Wanderer

© Kareni/Pixabay

From brine that comes and goes

Across hot sand

Into hills and plains and groves

My shadow tells the time

And ratchets around my toes

The mist falls from the ground

And plays where it arose

Then heights shrink underfoot

As my eyes dry by what blows

I blink and turn

And see the shiny skirt

From under I was born

The air where I have come

Stretched and silent

Quiet screaming tranquil peace

I wonder and I wander

How high can something go

The Wanderer thinks in prose

Sit and meditate

The idle to create

Ever higher lows

The Wanderer thinks in prose

Published by dbmoore0727

***All views are my own*** I am a punk and a romantic with interests in all aspects of the world and its society.

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