Wanderers.
Under patterned, swirling skies,
Blending like paint colours into faint illusions
Of the past, present, and an endless array of tomorrows
Reside a chorus of wandering souls
Like lamp posts lining the streets
That are walked alone only by those in a continual state of contemplation.
With thoughts neither good nor particularly bad,
They wander all their lives,
Fumbling through conversation,
Floating through dreams,
And quietly evaporating at the end of it all,
With a gentle gust of wind
That leaves a fittingly picturesque impression
Alike to the round stamp of breath
On a snowy New York window.
- Charlie B.