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.