Chronicles Of A Wayfaring Stranger Poem by Ishmael Onserio

I walk on and off through demarcated doors beside an expansive hallway,
I count labeled heads one by one, faces depicting a wide range of mysteries,
Born of different mothers, living under one roof; here I draw waters of life,
A new revelation unfolding each day I go nearby to cast my fishing net deep,
Like a belated sheep near a paddock fence gazing at the oncoming enemy,
I look at the faces of my colleagues with whom we share spoils of that play,
My mind doesn't think differently, the same sun's heat scours the thoughts,
Brothers and sisters looking after each other, a brewing blitz in that strife,
I go through the lobby as I labor, a real sibling is angry, I hear a device beep,
As I move on, I see sheets falling in a nearby attic and a shout of blasphemy.

I greet my aides lined up for a briefing before the wheels of day start rolling,
The tomb-faced patriots look at each other, there is a storytelling in the air,
Uncensored mumblings satisfy my conscience as I bow and accept that fact,
Dyeing my back with obscured shade won't change the treasured trajectory,
Even if I self-squeeze in humility to be a saint, my stony face will ever live,
A life past those widened river bridges has no point to chew, no instructing,
The day moved on slowly, I heard my sibling crying, the treatment was fair.
Looking down a void hallway, my hardworking helper's eyes had an impact,
She came by tardily, her neck coiled in a way, silence with avowed mystery,
Minds coerced to slog on spotting a remote sojourner saved from the grave.

I was a lone sightless nymph, a young maggot crawling on a pricking path,
I was at the first door, my heart sunk into a basis of building an argument,
Just deep inside my soul, my deluding mind was cleansed with another view,
'Good morning, how is your day, how are you feeling? My name is Newton.
It is a new day, pleasure to have you on my list, this is your helping hand.'
Silence raged, face got darker than mine, looked aside sipped a deep breath,
My body was cold, I thought he never talked, I didn't move at that moment,
'Go ahead quickly, don't waste my time.' His voice shuddered, it was blue,
It was another head bang, my hands quaked, my eyes led the life pills down,
To the warmth of his rest, face greeting a loud screen, it was an army band.

She was resting in a fowler's propensity, her bed screeched as she exercised,
Her face was lit up, faded muscle potence vocalized an unavoidable smile,
I was a trespassing moth, she looked up down and again for a second time,
'Well, which is your hometown, start with your name if you don't mind?
Which sea do you cross and drink from at the peak of a heated summer? '
I got confused, that introduction came in on my entry, the smile had waned,
It was because of my dubiety, I was slow to answer, I knew she had no guile,
She appeared benevolent at first, wrinkles piled up on her face as dry slime,
'St. Louis.' My talk like rain hit her face, she doubted, she wanted a rewind,
I saw it on her face. It didn't take long, she heeded to a sweet call of slumber.

At the last door my heart thundered, I knocked, my feeble fingers got sore,
I didn't want to see the ordeals of time, a brighter face I met, it was my joy,
It was a quick show of brotherhood, his face glowed steadily as pricey plush,
He looked at my face and stuttered a little, his metered ruling was very true.
My intellect didn't want to live in the past, I stood and waited for the order,
'Which river goes by your hometown, which spire do your people adore? '
'Which hill that is the foot of your deity, he who's able to justly destroy? '
I was dumb, anger bubbled upon his forehead, he threw a heap in that rush,
'Amazon freshet, The Everest peak, ' I piled up too, his face got a pale hue.
He gazed aside, marked mute facial utterances placed within us a boarder.

I know I'm a Wayfaring Stranger; I am daily reviewed by an eagle's one eye,
Tossing of my soul before the crowd brings turmoil in my tattered bosom,
I walk by gates of hell to sustain my bloom, I'm the night fisherman's hook,
Wide open lanes for rolling like an amusement ride, my heart like a swamp,
Hooded faces in the heart of my desk, varied, but with similar cutting edge,
A smile entwined in that bedrock, you won't tell, all you see is a prized lie,
This is a blowhard song that was written in ancient times with optimism,
Now abased by men who were sole beneficiaries of the atonement in a look,
I see flamed hair like mine, a grilled skin on my thigh; all give us one hump,
A stallion chiding frail-legged mule with a curse that files a dazing grudge.