Wanderlust (poem)

Wanderlust

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

watching

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

breathing

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

dreaming

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

turning

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

escaping

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

— The Finicky Cynic

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