Photo: That lost soul is the author
A poem about searching
Sometimes in the morning, I just want to run
far from these daunting feelings of dark clouds.
I would like to visit everybody’s mind
because I am seeking the knowledge of the Freeman.
But then, a familiar odour pushes me to recall
that there is no such info. There is none!
We all doubt every day and every night.
With no certainty, we start to run.
Faster. Faster and light.
A kilometre after a mile.
Water from my forehead travelling south
stops still at my empty dry mouth.
Each drop of effort makes me understand
that running doesn’t help you
if you are circling around.
Freedom is no place, no mood or phase.
Freedom is a utopia. That’s my guess.
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