The Wanderer

The wanderer that's genius thrives On distance, and far away longing: Eyes well focused, but visible miles Between sublimed, and sublimer. Too much intimacy weighs down it's fragile Flutterby self, with too much baggage; Heavily then, it falls to ground Impeded by human emotion's folly Which wants to own, or at least direct That beam, of the conscious missile. It can bear no chains; and so it returns To sleep, in it's own overflowing wells of being. No amount of coaxing can exhort it's return Until a lithesome wind comes; arouses it again, Beckons it's delicate paper-mached wings: And so it begins to rise then, Like just the barest breath of an incantation, More believed in, than spoken aloud; And it begins to circle slowly around that Which is yet beyond imagination's reach, But which might be born, at some unclocked hour In a yet nameless city, of tomorrow.