Wandering Years
These are the wandering years,
mystic-misfit, born exile —
homeless at last, tormenting idea
become beckoning reality
Lover of longing’s song
and whispered promises
all the colors once fixed
now, profusely bleed...
Just as constellations disperse
the pattern no longer discernible
here, within reach, the future looms
high as imagination, deep as fear.
© Yahia Lababidi
(Images: Pixabay)