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Honeyed hearth of heartbeats yet to throb
held in the night dream embryos
where questions echoes their thoughts.

Perhaps, is the road sign
waiting in its seductive wisps,

a moan from the concrete
reaches down the throat
and claws with curiosity.

Traveling is the song,
the inevitable pulsing wind

there is refuge of calm

in the place not yet found

but it dwells in the imagination

creating those gnawing maps
as the urge that never dies

always possessing as a vagabond's wisp
looking for the address to the soul

It lives and thrives in your vibrations
as the one place
you wander endless
to find as home.