Oh, way of twisting root,
snarling beneath my feet,
serpentine it looped the vine
that caught me underneath.
Oh, way of groaning bridge,
creaking across the glen,
it mumbled as I tumbled
from the here until the then.
Oh, way of weary drifter,
carving through the cliffs,
long the road and strong I strode
on legs so sore and stiff.
© 2015 Stellular Scribe
Restless is the wanderer,
inconstant are her itching feet
that cannot bide the ties of time
or ramble the well-travelled streets.
Nothing more than ‘fixed’ she fears,
and ‘settled’ stirs her skin with snakes —
adventure and the unknown steers
her into strange and thrilling stakes.
With each mountain matched and scaled
the lines across her map unravel,
for the wanderer can’t be nailed
in her life of constant travel.
© 2015 Stellular Scribe
There’s a mark on my map,
inked in oil and scratched in haste,
with a moaning mountain
scrawled beside it;
its peak laced in smoke
and dust.
There’s a line on my map,
drawn like a jagged smile across
the plains, eternally sneering
upon the compass,
daring it to falter and turn
its gaze.
There’s a sea on my map,
draped in rolling waves that peak
like summits, tempted to
swallow the earth
and drown the journey before it’s
begun.
There’s a chance on my map,
not rubbed in charcoal or sketched with quills,
but bleeding from beneath the
parchment, as if begging
the wanderer to become the
seeker.
Stellular Scribe 