The Wanderer

1 Comments

The Wanderer

Nostalgic cries echo through  space and time
To heed the reader of effigies in my past. 
These deep scores inflicted with the edge of realization 
Fill with the sour bile that is your abandonment. 
Desired tenderness held back by fear of rejection.
Unattained promises forgotten as if unimportant.
Obliged respect strengthen only by my own frailty.
----------------------------------------------------------
Without looking back, you  turned towards the sunset,
Belittled by my grudges,  weakened-- in deep regret.
You walked for days on end,  always trying to forget,
Passing from town to town; they only say your silhouette.
You trailed off the maps, wanting to alleviate your mind,
But the guilt was to heavy-- you couldn’t leave it all behind.
One day I saw a familiar figure, walking as if blind.
The steps: one after one, laid circled and entwined. 
In an instant, our eyes were locked in sight.
In your gaze, I could see some credence but no glimmer of delight  
Nostalgic cries echo through space and time
To heed the reader of effigies in my past. 
  
These deep scores inflicted with the edge of realization 
Fill with the sour bile that is your abandonment. 
  
Desired tenderness held back by fear of rejection.
Unattained promises forgotten as if unimportant.
Obliged respect strengthen only by my own frailty.
  
---------------------------------------------------------------------
  
Without looking back, you turned towards the sunset,
Belittled by my grudges, weakened-- in deep regret.
You walked for days on end, always trying to forget,
Passing from town to town; they only say your silhouette.
  
You trailed off the maps, wanting to alleviate your mind,
But the guilt was to heavy-- you couldn’t leave it all behind.
One day I saw a familiar figure, walking as if blind.
The steps: one after one, laid circled and entwined. 
  
In an instant, our eyes were locked in sight,
In your gaze, I could see some credence but no glimmer of delight.
Your lips quivered, affected by the miasma of that night,
 You softly said, “Forget this man. Don't call him father tonight,
or acknowledge his heavy plight, He hasn't earned the right." 
 

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Rhymer commented on The Wanderer

03-18-2010

Simply outstanding write, 10 from me...................................

Poetry is not an expression of the party line. It's that time of night, lying in bed, thinking what you really think, making the private world public, that's what the poet does.

Allen Ginsberg (1926-1997) U.S. poet.

alexm0193’s Poems (12)

Title Comments
Title Comments
The Devil and His Muse 4
The Wanderer 1
Unplugged 4
Separated 2
M.I.A. 2
Awakening 0
The Mountain To Overcome [Pt. 1] 1
Lunatic's Plea 3
Composition of Psyche 2
We Are The End 1
Aging Eyes 2
Last Stand 5