The Wanderer Poem by Patti Masterman

The wanderer that's genius thrives
On distance, and far away longing:
Eyes well focused, but visible miles
Between sublimed, and sublimer.
Too much intimacy weighs down it's fragile
Flutterby self, with too much baggage;
Heavily then, it falls to ground
Impeded by human emotion's folly
Which wants to own, or at least direct
That beam, of the conscious missile.
It can bear no chains; and so it returns
To sleep, in it's own overflowing wells of being.
No amount of coaxing can exhort it's return
Until a lithesome wind comes; arouses it again,
Beckons it's delicate paper-mached wings:
And so it begins to rise then,
Like just the barest breath of an incantation,
More believed in, than spoken aloud;
And it begins to circle slowly around that
Which is yet beyond imagination's reach,
But which might be born, at some unclocked hour
In a yet nameless city, of tomorrow.