Poetry, I suppose

An aimless wandering does my life seem to be at present,
with no alteration in sight.
More of the same, and more of the same…
Everything is the same.

Except that I feel different from the rest,
and as though I am not meant to stay here
with this flowing, owing, wandering world.

I move differently, indeed,
but it is not enough – I know it is not.
I am still here, aimlessly wandering,
for something, for someone, for me?
I can feel that it is almost time to go,
and I haven’t the slightest idea where that means.
But go I shall.
That I know.
And then I’ll know.


Post-a-day 2017



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