It has ravaged and roamed.
Supermarket workers, doctors
and nurses and the radical poets.
Consumed by a surreal sameness.
No purpose to rise, for some
no purpose to live.
But I will not go onto this gentle glide.
Nor be robbed of my renewing.
I take my pen in my skillful hands.
And kiss the lips of the woman I love.
This enough, to give an utterance
to my surging thoughts.
A Wandering Poet 