Wandering Soul

 

I feel the surge inside.

This room can't contain

my excitement.

I need to get out.

Wander like I'm lost.

Walk in the rain.

Hike at dawn,

and camp at dusk.

Lie on my back and

watch the sky, as the

shadows of the clouds

wash over my face.

To throw my watch down

the drain, and run wild.

Without the shackles

of time and hopes.

I want to get out.

To grow my hair and 

leave it free, for the wind

to blow through

To write a lot ;

Poems and stories

about places, both,

great and dark.

To pack my bags with

clothes and books.

And nothing more than

what I really need.

To meet people

who won't care,

whether I look

a beggar or prince.

Don't you dare 

call it wanderlust.

It's something better

or worse. I don't know.

To sleep on rough

concrete floors,

soft wet grass and

the soil on the beach.

To travel on

empty trains

and on buses,

in crowded towns.

To ride a bike and 

pillion ride, through

foggy curves on

mountain roads.

To read Thoreau

and Kerouac,

under shady trees

and yellow bulbs.

To live in cities,

and in the wild.

In dingy rooms

and open huts.

To lie beneath

the starry sky ;

in the summer,

on a roof.

And talk a little

to people who

listen at least

to their own souls.

Calling myself

anything I feel..

Never settling 

within a single name.

To throw away

jobs that pay,

And vagabond

all the way.

To meditate deep

near the sea, with

crashing waves and

cries of gulls.

To surround myself

with trees and vines.

With droning beetles

and chirping crickets.

To walk along

forgotten rail tracks,

and hike along

those hilly trails.

To bathe in lakes

blue and icy cold.

Amble along dunes

windy and gold.

If I ever decide,

to leave my home,

my soul would run 

way ahead.

That's just how mad

it has become,

from living under

the same roof all life.

I need to get out

and move around.

Feeding my hunger

for new roads,

before my soul

starves to death.