Nomad

How I hope that I am wrong.
This incensed sense does not belong.

Maybe it does, maybe it will,
Find and lead to truth distilled.

Distilled from what kept us reeling.
Where we’re clear of fearful feelings.

Or maybe that is just a dream.
It is not me ‘pon which they lean.

Youngers may arise at last.
To take charge and then surpass.

Was a time I was that one.
But soon, I should be outdone.

I built a box ‘pon which they’ll stand.
It’s empty like my aging hands.

For now, at least, as is the case.
Until the rebel is embraced.

A fate that may have been surmised.
Success is found in my demise.

And so, I roam across this land.
Trying still to understand.

What will now become of me?
Now that life has set me free.

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