immemorial

Confused again by the young
desire towards, not poverty,
but desperation maybe.

The romance of locking
myself in the house,
fusing the windows shut
with cellophane and typing
until I run out of words.

Ashamed that I wish
to be remembered
but that's not it.

Not the vanity of worth
not the admiration of fame
not the power of power

Just the search
perhaps for truth,
but it doesn't matter what you call it.
We must walk, always,
down that path
knowing that it leads nowhere.

Glimpses of truth.
That's the only thing that stays
and acts as landmarks
for the lost
regardless of the time
in which they wander.