Wandering

is a mindless act
for filling space and time
without conceptualizing either one;
it is an escape
from an escape itself.

It is a dance
made for the solo performer:
broom in hand,
she sweeps away
her thoughts and worries,
mixing them with
the crumbs of old customers
and their kind words,
their large bills,
and their funny-looking looks.

You may be talking to her,
but the neurons in her brain
are joined in an electric song—
waltzing to and fro,
with arms linked
and smiles that stretch
the length of her face.
She nods—
and they all fall down.

Perhaps she is lost—
simply nowhere to be found!
Or maybe she’s just
found her way…

And when her consciousness
is restored—
when sound echoes through her ears
and translates into those
old, familiar words,
and her eyes—
though wide open—
finally wake from their deep sleep,
and her hand, resting in your palm,
is no longer numb—
you’ll know she’s stopped wandering and

She’s ready to come home.

Brinn W.

This poem was created and written by Brinn Wallin. Please do not steal or copy without permission. 
*All Rights Reserved*