Wanderer am I.
A misfit, perpetual freelancer in someone else’s world.
They know I am not one of them,
Though I appear to be,
Not one among them
I Am,
My brothers know
Through the eyes of their beliefs
They see not me
As in a mirror
One knows the image is not being.
For the image has no beating heart
That moves as soul through time.
So I am not one of them,
The image in the astral mirror of time
My brothers search for
And believe.
So I wander, surprised daily
For my persistence to exist here
Where I wander searching, observing,
Hopefully becoming
That part of me no one knows,
Including myself.
Wandering has its gifts,
Moments turn to bliss
In all too rare connections.
Where are the other parts
Of me That I am
That I may meet
In moments of the sweet
Remembrance embracing celebrations,
Licking flames of wanderings
Flickering in this place of motion,
The merry-go-round too swift
To remember the faces passing
In the night of longing.

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