Was a man who follows trails of vapor whispers, guides these ghostly compasses, reads smoke and mirrors, prefers the pitter-patter of blurry rain, sways to the rhythm of stumbling drums, rubs prescription lamps, wishes upon Upjohn genies to forget; is a man who remembers only blank smiles in crowns of grass, asks only to accompany never for directions, presses musings onto pages, phases into sunrises and out of sunsets, ties the wind to twisted umbrellas, and lets himself be taken; will be a man who leads the parades of birds, words bend and fold into cursive monuments, and he claims and climbs them and reaps the seeds of his travels.
1art by Pragna Gaddamedi (@prgs.jpeg)
Poetry Tip of the Day!
Wanderer. Wanderlust. Nomad. Personally, I was built to sit behind a desk, but I am still a victim of the romance in these words. If you know me, you’ll know I have terrible spatial awareness. I cannot gauge distance or time, and I am stranded without Google Maps. I use this to my advantage. Without direction, it’s hard to be disappointed by the destination. In this poem, the character is moving through time—a more relatable travel to me than distance, because as I said, I prefer the cardio of an active mind over an active body. In a fantasy world somewhere, I’d travel the desert by sunset and sleep during the daytime. In the real world, I do only the latter.