STRANGE OLD WANDERLUST

STRANGE OLD WANDERLUST

A rainy day befalls us, here in Quebec City,
And traveling, alas, has lost its pull on me.
There's all of this beauty for crying out loud,
Yet I sit in my room with my Amazon Cloud.

This strange walk of mine, I swear it gathers looks,
From patrons of quaint bakeries and hidden breakfast nooks.
When the voice of reason calls in French, it screams I'm headed for a fall,
Amid the stately architecture that looms so grand and tall.
A fall upon impressive sidewalks and their vaunted cobbled cracks,
There is a certain joie de vivre my spirit sorely lacks.

There is nowhere I want to go anymore,
There is no place I want to be.
Don't even know if this mood is for sure,
Or just a case of grief or ennui.
I only know I'm sinking into the deep red clay,
Of habits that are hard to break and will not go away.
I am fading like a gypsy into the sacred ancient dust,
There's no place I care to go anymore,
 No vestige left of my strange wanderlust.

The world and its passengers are mercenary sprites,
Clamoring like homeless children aching to be heard,
Working by day, then dancing through the nights,
Memorizing every note and mastering every word.
I sit in the middle, fingers plugging ears,
Not making sense of the music I hear.
Not even caring for the plans I have discussed,
Devoid of all interest and stripped of all cheer,
Stripped to the core falls this strange wanderlust.

Is it symbolic, a relic of disease?
A notion to be left alone to do just as I please?
Is it an immutable fact, or merely a shameful selfish act,
An act for which I should burn and should forever atone?
There's nowhere I want to go anymore,
Nowhere to go but home.

My heart it grovels and it begs,
Pleads for the brim but gets caught in the dregs.
Gets lost and tossed aloft in the immortal fight and fuss,
The push and pull of places far, this strange old wanderlust.
There's no place I want to go anymore,
No one I really want to be,
Life's a sad, cheap list of chores,
Piling up in front of me.
And why I can't for the life of me write a happy verse,
Only points me to my losses, leaves me feeling worse.

Here in the beauty of Quebec City,
Alone with my Amazon Cloud.
I have become a reluctant traveler,
Of this I am not proud.
But the music rushes over me, soft and sweet and pretty,
Calms my spirit with its Zen, affording me no pity.
Though life is built on shifting sands,
What I am is what i am.

And there's no place I want to be anymore,
But in your arms at the close of the day.
Don't want to go to the mountains or the shore,
Don't want to sail on the teeming bay.
I only want for you and me, and the everlasting us,
You are my precious destination, my strange old wanderlust.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2013
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED