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There seems tome
to be
A shortage…
Or maybe its
a surplus.
Of what I’m unsure.
Whather too little
or too much
I am uncertain.
There is a heavy feeling
in my air
Or the light is too dark.
Perhaps the hues
have faded.
Or the season hasn’t changed.
There is a stalesness which
I can taste.
Over ripe fruit of a diseased tree
Falling to the ground,
Bursting its sour, rank
Pulp
Sending seedlings
In all directions,
Contaminating the soil
of my mind.
My senses catapult into that
all too familiar fervor,
its overexertion useless.
Still there is something…
An emptiness which
I cannot pinpoint.
How can I find that
which I cannot
Determine is missing.
A search with an
Unknown treasure.
A journey without
a destination.
My heart still beats.
My lungs still breathe.
My hand still aches
for the pen.
I continue to lead
with no followers.
I dance with no music.
The wondering never ceases.
The wandering never ends.
The need unfufilled.
A home I’ll never know…
 C.R. 2007