O Wanderer

Thine blood, it boils
The horizon knows you
Eternal companion
O wanderer
I know it to be true
Above the winds
That skirt the World’s roof
You wander with unfaltering step
Upon the road unknown
O wanderer
Thine blood, verily, boils.


Fourteen Billion Hands

Solitude extends indefinite
over a wandering gaze.
Moments of uncertain tranquility,
caught in transfixed irises.
Carrying the surface tension
of a lingering kiss.

Orange beams
bleed slowly into frame,
warming the confines
of this cage.
A flutter.
The heart speaks.
Its words lost in
the midpoint of empty spaces.

Loneliness is a word
the World is built upon.
Fourteen billion hands
hold on to
This is not what was promised.