A wanderer

Walking through the stratums of incertitude

Dubious of his destiny

He keeps moving and going


Like the thread on the ground

Keeps twisting and turning

Heads up

Eyes straight

He keeps pulling the thread

Untwisting and unfolding

And Straightening it up

It’s what he is to do.

It’s what the destiny wants him to do.

Carving his own paths.

Smoking the soul in the dead.


Repined from the Isles of mind

Rendered by the curse of insomniac nights

I walk alone in this dark alley

With a torch in my hand

I know not, if I’ll find that Gold

For I have been in these streets before

And always returned impoverished

The address delivered to me is always changed

New houses, new shacks and quarters, I find

Every time I take a turn

The gangling structures of unfathomable desires

The dark moats of untrenching expectations

The rocketing skies of spindling hopes

All of them throw a string around my neck

And pull, whenever they want

The torch in my hands, drops

The shackles of these unprecedented games

Trick me, and I fall

Every single time.

But not anymore

For the strings attached

Will be cut with a knife concealed in my sleeve

And I’ll pick up that torch again

To find that lost treasure

To scavenge my inner peace