Being

This being human is a wandering
Across this strange country you have
No use for.

The landscape glows
The dimmest green-grey.
The sun has walked away
But you still lurk in its road
Chambered by fog.

Many other faces have wandered,
Seen by the leafless black trees,
Searched the light gathered
In long puddles.
You have been here too.

This being human is a wandering
Across this strange country that has
No use for what you have lost,
But there is a knowing hemmed
To your skull that the path has
A certain end, and one day
You will see its hand emerging
From the fog, waiting for what
You have found.


Written for dVerse Poets Pub for Tuesday Poetics.

7 thoughts on “Being

  1. I’m pleased to welcome you to Poets Pub Poetics, Tired Hamster, and enjoyed your metaphor poem, having been a bit of a wandered in the past. Settled down now, appreciate the landscape you painted with your words, especially the use of colour and the image of ‘light gathered In long puddles’. I love the ending, the ambiguous hand emerging from the fog – is it waiting to take the reader’s hand or for the reader to place something in it?

    Like

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