Fickle

There is not much left of me,
In terms of sanity;
it has leaked into oak bark and
Leapt down cathedral halls
To rest in woodland moss and
deep in old wine cellars.
I am pulled by every rolling tide;
satisfied by flicking lights.
It's playing in wanderlust
And tangled in berry bushes.
So it is safe for me to say,
not much of it remains within;
Whereas the soul is tormented
By never making any sense.

Reviews

[Coyote Poetry]

Wanderlust. I loved and needed once. Now I am a anchor.
"It's playing in wanderlust
And tangled in berry bushes.
So it is safe for me to say,
not much of it remains within"
The above lines. They said a mouthful. When we can know the wanderlust. We are seeking or running away? Thank you dear Anna for sharing the excellent poetry.
Coyote

[Ballpark Frank]

Very well done. So sad if a scene described, and yet so well done! You are talented.