Prodigal River

What will I do if I stop
this longing to follow the sun in its journey
as it falls eternally, torching the night away,
camping across effervescent cultures,
soaking in their ways as I follow mine?
A longing like that of a parched land
destined to be ruled by a nascent river,
waiting with bated breath to soak in
that first drop of vapourising water
as it arrives, bearing the might
of entire civilisations across time,
with all their destruction.
A longing to quietly, calmly trudge
My own destined path - my one direction,
through the eternal search
for meaning and origin; maybe even love,
but I can't seem to turn on the silence;
even when I turn everything else off
to yearn for that distant call of
that solitary cricket calling out to its mate.

A longing to achieve aimlessness,
like a piece of paper or polyethene
tossed about in the air, being guided
by forces much larger than itself,
not caring where it's headed,
where the road will end, or
what the next turn will twist (yet
glued like a poster on the wall, powerless,
tied to routine, I fear to tear
myself away, a part of me stuck forever).
A longing to leave myself behind
for a mindless search for satisfaction,
as I lie here
tapping my feet to measure time,
writing lines and sculpting poems,
as the guitar, fondled by silence,
moans a silent melody, layered by piling
dust keeping proof of time.

A longing to pour down this cloud,
so pregnant with questions,
hoping to find its answers
on either side of sleep.
A longing to to never cease;
to be a legend that keeps flowing
from generation to generation;
a prodigal river tracing its path across time,
quenching the thirsts of virgin ears,
passed on through words, spoken, then written;
a nestling taking off for the first time,
so unsure of everything, yet so excited,
questioning everything around in this journey
through life, through evolution,
falling forever like the circling sun,
till time bites its tail and words and form are one...