Voyagers

Wandering with mysticism and wonder,

unbound, indefinite, and yet - hopeful.

Ever changing;

a creek after the rains,

a fog among the wood,

a branch in the storm.

Overflowing with schemes,

uplifting for the soul.

A key to the gate,

a knife to the rope.

Seen by the seer,

dreamed by the dreamer,

spoke by the speaker,

yet lost to the fool.

Never chained to wisdom,

nor edicts, nor possibility.

An adventure forever new and never complete.

A battle never lost nor triumphed.

And in the end, circular - unknown to the wanderer,

the wonder seeps forth into the visage of mysticism.

Bearings are again misplaced, 

and the mist settles upon the path once more.

And still the wandering travel -

belief in an answer striving to materialize,

fear in a step not taken,

faith in a link to the unobstructed.

What gathers these minstrels, these voyagers?

A moment in time not yet utilized?

A twinge of the heart?

Or is it something more: a guiding force, a broken promise, or even prophecy?

Most of all - these pilgrims, those who are both together and alone,

venture forth into these lost lands for a single reason.

The essence of all that the fool drinks and the wise contemplate -

the mastery of love.