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I do not know what to believe anymore,
abut why I am here,
where I belong,
sing for me now,
The Wanderer's Song.

Many lands have I traveled,
many things I have seen,
a true trust in friendship,
there has never been.

What say you to such an excuse?
That your love you shall offer,
your love I shall refuse?
A corrupted liar, of me you accuse?

In dreaming we meet,
in dreaming we slide
down a darkening hill
to wonder and surprise.

What have you,
to show for this;
a new dark name added to your list?
A badge of finery, to wear on your wrist?

You have seen things too.
To let and abide;
watching the war
with a scar in your side.

Out and about, as he saying may go,
of this it has not always been so.
You sit in he dark here;
all by yourself.
Like and old toy
at the back of a shelf.

Do you ever weep?
I never do.
Nothing is important-
Just like losing a shoe.
My heart, empty, for true.

The ramparts of a castle
sitting up high
provide amusement
from life passing by.
Let out a half-hearted sigh.
Effort in life you say?
I don't even try.
Probably not-
`til the day that I die.

Why? Does it not hurt?
Arrows and swords
in words you now blurt.
My heart turns away
with each passing day.
Shield strengthened
in this special way.

Each day, each month, has a special time.
I take a break
and think up a rhyme.
Moments like this
are no longer sublime.

Have a new thought?
Write it in verse.
If you do not
your soul
I shall curse.

The poem it goes, as day does grow long,
ever lengthening,
my Wanderer's Song.

The lines written here do not speak for themselves,
leave them alone
and they rot on old shelves.