Wanderlust (poem)


A garden grows inside of the chest
blooms wildflower with each beat
to the wild heart


eyes like Sunday take part in the mind
taking it slow by the hour
cerebral fantasies


in hotel linen recycled from yesterday
and the day before, too busy discovering
to clean up the mess


toes curled for miles under blankets
of soft skies against your body
each dip and turn


landscapes on their sides, dimpled oceans
and cracks under your mouth
into horoscopes for


an idle existence spent away indoors
false chance of seeking hope
for the next wander.

— The Finicky Cynic

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