To Tim, the one special person who understands
We are bloodbrothers of all drifting things
That ride the winds and tides, or on swift wings
Cry down the pathless blackness of the nights,
Guided by restlessness and phantom lights,
Of will-o-the wisps borne by lost frantic souls,
Futile seekers of far shifting goals.
We see strange sights, learn curious truths,
Find lotus lands and taste fruit that soothes
Our fretted spirits for a blissful while
In vague enchantment on an idle dreaming isle,
But leaves us craving, seeking once again
Veiled distances. We know the stabbing pain
That makes the desolation-haunting loon
Fling manic laughter to the silent moon,
For once, god-cursed, it saw the monstrous joke
Life plays on life; its terrored reason broke
And so its mocking mirth congeals our blood.
We are riders of the aimless flood,
Strayed human driftwood watching with wise weary eyes
The brassy tropic suns and shallow empty skies
Of chartless seas. One day is like another day,
And we happy, unhappy.......only we know for sure
We know not what strange port shall be our last,
Nor care. Today we feast, tomorrow we fast.
The treasure found is less to us than treasure sought,
And we dearly treasure trifles dearly bought,
While all those tender things, friendship, love, home
That haunt the dreams of us who drift and roam
We trade for worthless star-dust which we vainly seek
In nameless valleys lost behind some mist-enshrouded peak.