|First poem I've written in a while that wasn't horribly ridden with anxiety. Nice change of pace. I think it's one of my better works.|
MeaningWhat is the purpose of human existence?Meaning by A-Wandering-Man
Why are we here?
Why does it matter?
What meaning is there to life?
None of these questions have satisfying answers.
Why is that? It's very strange.
I think children generally have it figured out, intuitively. But I doubt their ability to conceptualize it, let alone express it. I think they care little about such existential questions.
I think we can learn something from that. The fact is, we're here. We know a fair bit about the "how", which is worth knowing - not to mention, actually possible to know. The "why" of it all, though, is a massive, burning question in many minds; but I think it is actually rather inconsequential.
Would we live differently if we knew? Perhaps. But we might not. Humans tend to be rather stubborn, that way.
For me, personally, I've decided to think of life as a grand experiment, an immersive experiential narrative of somewhat indefinite length, depth, and breadth. A Petri dish for a mind, if you will,
The Eternal SingingShe inhales sharply before taking her first steps,The Eternal Singing by A-Wandering-Man
Planting her feet squarely in this new World
Entering from the infinite void into chaos pandemic
And before another breath is drawn, Order is wrought.
Her sword bites into the vital points of a dozen men;
Like so many cobras lashing out, striking their prey.
Her magic bears burden of both shield and healer,
Warding away the viciousness of the cowardly brutes,
Who so blithely thought to attack the innocent.
In seconds, her deadly dance reduces the raiders to nothing
And just as swiftly as she arrived, she sets herself upon
Yet another battle, another world, another affront to justice
She walks among the wyrds of the many worlds, finely weaving
The threads of fate into a glorious tapestry, spun of life,
Love and truth; correcting errors as they manifest in the fabric.
As she strides through this great hall of destinies unfurling,
She hears a whisper in the distance, the faintest notes of song.
A visceral calling spurs her onward, as she
Little ThingsThe corner of her mouth curled wrylyLittle Things by A-Wandering-Man
In a sly, nearly invisible smile.
She hides it well, but it's a tell;
And I think I might stay a while.
It's the little things that give it away.
Stealing those glances and flashing a grin;
Still weighing my chances, and to my chagrin,
This riddle I'll not decipher this day.
Am I manufacturing signal from noise,
Imagining that my fantasies could be?
Am I deluding myself to think her choice
Might be to turn 'you and I' into 'we'?
To Ink One PageLook, my friends, at these blank pagesTo Ink One Page by A-Wandering-Man
These vast spaces, and yawning ages;
Upon this canvas I will spin my tales,
Through which I speak when voice fails.
So long and wondrous a story
Which practically begs to be told
It promises love, honour, and glory;
A tale tall as mountains, and almost as old.
But it is only my place to ink one page;
One fresh, new leaf in a book of immense age.
A ponderous, wandering epic, weaved of blood,
Time, and love; witnessed by eyes with tears aflood.
Set upon me by cruel and benevolent fates,
This tapestry of lengthy battles won and lost;
Writ large and small, and yet more awaits.
Things of immeasurable value, and extreme cost.
I write with a shaky hand, steadied only by time,
And so my page takes many years to fill, a crime
But for the fact that no one waits on my conclusion;
For we all pen our own page in this great illusion.
That I might eke out only a line in the ancestral account
Worries me little, so long as my passion and legacy amount
To some minu
|Feel free to peruse my gallery... some old gems but mostly there's a general trend of improvement as time goes on, I feel. Mostly just poetry but there's some prose thrown in here and there. Hope you enjoy.|
I'm a writer, not an artist! And a pretty damn good one! At least, I'd like to think so.|
I think too much, feel too much, and eat too much, and I don't think any of those things will ever change.
I love living, but it terrifies me. Odd, that. Suppose that's how it's supposed to be.
My best friend in the world is MissSoarrow, so be nice to her!
“Judge a man by his questions rather than by his answers.”
"Come, come, whoever you are; wanderer, worshipper, lover of leaving; Ours is no caravan of despair; come, yet again, come"
― Rumi, Sufi poet