Weeds

The wanderer walks eying the spire of ambitions
In the distance endless as the want of eternity
He has no money,
He says that even when he thought he could buy pleasure
There was no form or shape in its rustle for a smile
And the heavy paper could not be writ on
Leaving him bare as the road he walks upon
*
The roads upon which he walks looms long and far
Never does have a bed to sleep or a pillow to rest his head
He has no house,
He mused that once where he thought he had somewhere to be safe
The walls took to grow upon him and swallow him whole
All he had was stolen or taken save for his soot and solitude
And there was nothing to which he could hold or call his own
*
And so walks the wanderer in search for meaning
Trees struggling against the wind, a lake frozen white
He has no lover,
He says that everytime he searched for one where he'd belong
She took to be a silhouette walking upon the hard ice upon water
He slipped, he sank, he drowned, he burnt and he suffocated
Never came her slim white wrists to pull him from the blindness
*
And he came to the day where he took his final steps
The footsteps of the gods which he chased never came to sight
He struggles for breath,
No money, a fugitive of love, no house and one without a job
He died as he came, with nothing to have or hold on to
And all that remained of him was the beauty of life itself
Closed eyes still chasing dreams free of hunger, debts or a will
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Raw
I was studying philosophy and catching up with the schools of logic. Every word has a function and every sentence has to take a form in sense for the sake of argument. But what of the heart which knows of no reason or the scheme of rhyme and purpose. What be the use of words and its purpose when life in itself for most make for little or no sense.