A light breeze fell on his right shoulder as he walked past the glistening lights of the shores of his salvation. A shadow followed his path and every step taken lit the floor with an almost angelic light. The wide expanse of silvery light refracted and distorted his image as he looked over the edge of the vessel. He saw an unwanted and disliked man by many. Yet the shadow saw differently. The shadow saw the tender pain in his eyes and caressed him in darkness as best it could, but knew it would do no good. The wanderer’s only consolation lay in the world of misfits. The perfectly imperfect.


Days passed like seconds and years passed like minutes, but the Wanderer stayed stagnant on his course. The eternal whip of the world had lashed him too deep. He had lost all sense of direction and only gained a sense of the final feat. As he grew old, solidarity from the early beginnings began to leave traces on his skin. Eating away at that flesh of his. But still he marched on. Nothing could stop him now.


On and on he sailed, through the roughs and the gales. A life full of hazard, but somewhat worth the disasters. He faced them with no apparent fear, but still that shadow beckoned and he slowly retracted gears. The years soon caught up with him. And he struck the peak of a mountainous sin. Down went his ship, and the captain soon with it. The shadow blanketed him out of fear, enveloping his seemingly permanent host. But soon he rose to the surface with scars to show for that which had sunk not long ago.


A light kept him on the surface, no matter how close doom lurked. It was the job of the darkness, which had brought him down first. Now it was the light which beckoned, hence called the rebirth. And on he fought the currents, which sought to bring about his existence on earth. The almighty struggle, had ended that curse. Through which the darkness followed and love forever hurt.


He returned to his old home, to be nurtured and lathered, in the honey of a mother, whose son had begun to wander. Never again would he leave, that which with open arms had gathered, all sole possessions for the happiness, of a child in pampers. He soon learned, that growing up didn’t mean a lone battle, but a person with a story and lots of lost battles, but a war victorious. 

This poem is about: 


Need to talk?

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741