Wandering and wandering
and wandering we go
where we’re stopped
by whom and the how,
only the notions,
of father time can now tell.
Because in the end
what they call sin
is thinking with
alternative win–
corruption unseated,
mind boggles it, when,
they don’t see it coming
get steamrolled in spin
“If only, if only,”
the cry in the night,
those four sacred words,
turn to sand from might,
like the ancients of old
for what time doesn’t bare us,
was written, foretold,
no need to embarrass,
nor spoil it, see,
for those wee little four words,
contain infinity.
But never fear,
for madness is near,
and love-a-rub dubbing,
kindly riding in rear.
Decipher their words,
but know not their meanings,
for these processions, herds,
and wanton unleanings,
are really the yearnings,
of creatures quite feeling.
All quite like us,
and no wonder, you know,
when wandering and a-wandering
and-a wandering we go.
Wordsmith of Sol 