Bouquet Of Belonging

A nomad wanders in labyrinthine wasteland of the denuded life, desolate, the sinuous dusty track takes me to the obscure terrain of forlorn nowhere. My soul’s lattice, entranced, migrates mystified, entangled in the encircling web of enigmatic conundrum, asks bemused: shall I escape from decay delirium, or shall I be the enigma, embedded. I couldn’t decide. The ingrained imprint of possessed passion, indelible, of the stubborn being on the weaving wheel of demanding time, dexterous, winds on its own out of the tormenting tangle of the tortuous trail of the pining past, transfixed in the horizon of receding menagerie of memory. Steered with the promise of pervading pride, my beleaguered mind out of the maze, shows me the pathway to the fervent fountain of euphoric future, figurative. With the beat of my heart I break resolute the invisible blatant barrier, impervious, you’ve built insolent with skeleton of seclusion around the secret garden, shrouded by arctic mist of mind’s winter feelings frozen. The baroque buds supine on supple saplings, line your garden path, wait for spring. I saunter there, suffused sensually with the seraphic shine of sunburst new dawn. I wish, before I walk the last mile, our paths will cross someday in the valley of flowers, entwine eternally, metamorphosed into bouquet of belonging, epitomized.