photo credit: marvic/depositphotos.com
The good thing about going through a memory box is finding things you thought were lost forever. It happened to me this weekend when I found a poem I wrote many years ago. After so much time, the paper had yellowed, but thankfully the writing remained legible. It is the only poem I have ever written and proof why I now only write prose. There’s no doubt the metre and rhythm are far from perfect, but the lyrics aren’t bad. Here it is:
I may not know what my destination may be,
I only know that traveling is my necessity.
From dawn to dust, my tired feet stumble along the old dirt road.
And over my strong but weary back, I carry my needed load.
I say to myself keep going, going, going on.
From sleeping on dirt and stones, my face is scarred.
While my stomach suffers from being tragically and painfully starved.
When will I make something of myself instead of this traveling?
I might be better off stealing than this continuous rambling.
I say to myself keep rolling, rolling, rolling on.
But what better way to see the beauty of the great outdoors.
A castle ya! With the grassy blades my soft, luscious floors.
And who else has a ceiling in their home a million miles high?
There ain’t nobody who appreciates this more than a poor passerby.
I say to myself keep drifting, drifting, drifting on.