The Wanderer

As I attempt to love you
I love those who came from you
and utter apparent cause
under the lantern moon.

Today I spotted the criterion
in fall so soft beside, he was
a weary-eyed wanderer, in flux.

What waited in his breath
was hinged upon time.
He was the deliberate emulation
of predictable routines.

What was he in status
but an illusion, an ownership,
a wanderlust continuing in hand,
the farce of consumption.

Where is your naked self?
grappling upon stone
a relish in the tempests, the torrents,
the turbulence of doubt.

Where are the blessings,
the gifts, the open journeys
in ecstasy, reality
and its bitter face.

Where is the ride, the waves,
the change unleashed in our deeds
and honor in the memories
of what we leave behind.

The advice of the sages rings again
wanderer, what we have—
nothing is what we own.
In passage may we wake.

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