How it is to Walk

Often, I collect bits of myself
Like a tired hag her much-worn skirt
And then a flash of the wide, wide way
That walks to no end, but a search.

Colours pass me, I drink a bit of them
Thirst compels me to this false wine
And swaying, I curse this self
Which seeks ectasy
Where there is none

And so walking, and often blind
I have scattered my shadow,
By the sun and the stream
My relflection calls to me
And I say,
One day
I will be there
All of me