Foraging

Foraging

One step at a time
in a trackless land
the wanderer seeks
amongst all the plants
the ripest berry
to pick with his hand.

The Darkness of woods
will shroud his choices,
stubborn old tree bark
heeds to no voices
so he passes on
completely noiseless.

He cannot compete
with things of nature,
deep-rooted in states
without any cure,
feeling all closed in
he longs for azure.

He'll follow his path,
sad in his lonesome,
until comes the time
when he finds the one
set apart watching,
waiting there at home.

Then without question
he'll set in his place,
worries will vanish
from his careworn face,
seemless destiny
will sprout, then erase.

Free from the past search
he'll dwell there in mirth,
like shade of sweetness
he'll feel his rebirth.


This poem, my fellow wayward souls, is my way of keeping my chin up.