lessons in wanderlust

Someday, just like one of these,
I'd simply
numb and quiet,
walk out of this shell.
A story engulfing me shall be shed, then a cast of dead skin if nothing else.

I moult through words, phrases, punctuations and names. In a constant flux of transition between what was once me to what is unknown.

I live in a fickle sense of reality,
the present being nothing more than a metaphor.
Like evolution, crawling out of ideas is what we call the essence of survival.

The way, a poet gathers the sand in his fist and lets it , again to seep into a distant reality.
A sand-dune to another.
One formless form to another.

The arrow of time piercing the thick vivid canvas of the metaphysical like everything else.
Like everything else,
my abstraction walking with me towards the needed disorder.
The way we all shall,
expanding hot masses of nebula destined to be a white dwarf.
Yes, somewhere in our lifetime, our brilliance shall stretch out to the horizon before fading, and leave behind a warmth.
A warmth of words, phrases, punctuations and yes,
names.

We all evolve.