The Wanderer By aldo kraas, www.PoetryPoem.com/poet11586 Unlock all Features - Upgrade to Poetry Prime
Marching onward ceaselessly, a muddled shapeless haze
Searching for a beacon that will never come,
A faceless ghost who's died a million deaths
And gone in a breath, this nameless stranger
Her earliest memories are of the sweet tang
of her grandmother's homegrown mangoes,
together and tender in peaceful silence,
two roughened palms with lines carved by age,
two smooth little hands yet untouched by time,
they peeled away the colorful skin,
exchanging swirls of autumn for a ripe golden orb,
as they sat beneath the shade of the mango tree.
But away from fading memories in the depths of her mind,
one question whispers while she wanders within,
past the hands and the mangoes and plump booming trees,
incessant murmurs of "What do you see?"
And she sees nothing but an endless blur
of landscapes and cities and people,
flickering visions like the shutter of a camera,
wispy and waning and never in focus,
rapidly blinking against the glare of theflash,
a stuttering staccato caught in the past,
and all she can do is stumble, disoriented,
and wait for the blindness to fade.
A shuffling corpse in an infinite void
of speechless tongues and soundless noise,
the wails of a nomad echo unheard
on the abandoned road of the dead.
A little girl in green rain boots,
one cool morning in early Spring,
leaps carefree from one puddle to the next,
her soft giggling a voice in the chorus
of a world rebirthed in song,
but the splash of her boots and the spark of laugh
are drowned out by the cries of the birds,
calling, "Where is my safety?" and "Where is my home?"
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