PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

I was a traveller even as a boy.
In mind the visions of metaphoric islands
Were my delightful companions of joy.
Even then I heard the winds of words
That caressed my soul as I began
The walk that would lead me forward.
And as the wind blew, I glibly ran
Into the warbling daylight of poverty;
Where sense were assaulted and insulted
By the mindless drones of the world.
They caused distress for they consulted
Remembrances of evil as their guides.
I think of stones rolling on a hill
And I wonder how long before they crash
Into the drifting zero of night chill
Where words are empty, feelings lost.
I am a traveller still, this I discover as I
Strand myself to particular grace of thought
Which runs in circles around my brain.
Like a bag on the steps, I am caught
By the marvellous adventures I began
When I was just a boy. I wholly subscribe
To eminent delights which begin to
Become the shapes of the magic rides
I find myself beginning. In truth I am not
Anything more then a wandering voice
Shouting into the sky the words I want
to be mine. This has been my choice
to travel always in my aging mind.