THE WANDERER’S LAST SONG

I sang songs to myself, simple, unfussy,

Enough for me, though of no consequence.

My songs grew, much like in a corner grassy

Thistle grows, by a broken, fallen fence.

No burning hues of some exotic brilliance,

They grew in dust, in swelter, umber-less.

The pigrim’s foot cruel marks out time’s transilience,

Tramples far weeds, their dense stand here no less.

Demeaned by life throughout, I wandered on,

Fortunes of others saw and mused upon,

Days brought my soul nothing but bitterness.

My Fate led me to nowhere, to be gone…

And yet my soul, though bleeding, none the less

Through those songs gave its fulsome happiness…