wanderlust.

perhaps that is fate, or
an inaction in weaving our own strands.

the pentameter draws to a still
the seven steps slows to a crawl, and then

nothing.

our notes doomed to obscurity.
poets of virtual unknown,
bodies of brimming ideas,
wheeled into the mortuary of eternal slumber

sealed shut.

we rhyme ourselves out of existence.

are we there yet?
no. where were we going again?
but these endless limericks,
these catchy riffs that only we share
they par the course.

we can only hope,
and wonder.