wandering
the soul often wanders in dry lands,
thirsty seeking relief from its inner alienation
finding no place to rest,
for pleasure
and simple recreation leaves it in more need
desiring something more than the toys
surrounding it
yet leaving the soul in deep darkness
such is our fate,
pilgrims,
never finding rest in the ephemeral,
not knowing
or fearing to understand
that truly we are just flowers of the field
fading each day
towards that moment when we end
and those with faith,
hoping against hope that the door will open
to what their faith seeks,
longs for.
