The Nomad
The Nomad
Some men are nomads, not meant to plant roots.
No families here, just more dust on boot.
Wander aimlessly, seeking our sun.
No multiplying, hollow be our fun.
We merely observe, their scans myopic.
Yield gestating dreams, we’re cursed not to fit.
Home yet to exist, for the Nomad King.
Carry it on backs, into wind we sing.
Lovers now shadows, their own story told.
No place for us left, our chapter’s been sold.
Memories of love, punches holes through souls.
Where do we have left? Twice found, both grew cold.
So the Nomad roams, restlessly through dark,
Flashes of little things, kids smiling in parks.
Testify our loss, that’s the Nomad’s lot.
In both life and death, we stir empty pots.
Shimmer white cottage, glowing picket fence,
So simple, easy? Never dreamed of less.
Though a Nomad’s dream, but an awful blight.
He gives it his all, yet lose every fight.
Another goodbye, so used to them now.
They get still to dream; we must forget. How?
The Nomad yet walks, through desert and ice.
Thinking of breakfast, family sounds nice.
Ice does grow colder, in newly sealed heart.
Feelings fade softly, hollowing this part.
For love rarely stays, it drifts and it fades.
Mere daydreams for fools, delusional haze.
Obtuse thoughts of noose, perhaps he craves death?
Stick around for now, walk a bit more yet.
Perhaps if he keep, forward movement more,
The Sunset will strike, malformed as a whore.
The Nomad ponders, as I won’t plant roots,
Is destiny set, falling from a roof?
Apotheosis, of the spotless mind,
Perfection of self, so rare that to find.
The heat inside builds, Icarus my son,
Revel in yourself, with haste you’ll be done.
Let her fly away; roam bird, fate yet waits.
Story’s written now, epilogue of pain.
The Nomad nods, accepts; packs his sack and leaves,
Waits until eyes fade, in darkness he grieves.
Hibernate for now, sleep for a while.
Forge fresh a new mask. Don’t forget to smile.
The Nomad chews air, he sucks dry a bone.
Wistfully he sighs, ‘Hold me, I miss home.’
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