I Wander
My struggle to keep pace is real. It gets harder and harder to rush towards the horizon and thwart the setting sun. Each new day is like starting a cold engine, it needing more time to warm up as winter approaches. He takes photographs to show others what they’re missing. She sings ballads to make her voice heard. I avoid attachments to let everyone know I am free. There’s nothing I must do that I like more than creating, unfolding my words into shapes, then infusing them with color and texture so they have a resonance of meaning or something akin to her song, and to his picture. I wander to remind myself I am free. What is it you do to rage against the dying of the light?
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