In awe, I observe the pandemonium,
taken aback by blurring bustle.
Unable to merge into the flow,
I am thrust into the gutter,
sprawling in the gravel,
choking upon the dust.
Eyes are stinging,
nose is swelled with debris,
lungs lurching in pain at every inhalation.
So I stand up and brush off my bruised pride,
extend my thumb
and try to hitch a ride to acceptance and tolerance.
But the norm drives by,
and I, by the wayside, watch and wait,
until my mind, muddled with inquiries
tells me plainly:
Find a road that is your own,
blaze a trail to your destiny
reap the overgrown grass that entangles your dreams,
ford the seas that flood your hope.
And so I proceed on my new-found path,
the golden embers of hope stoked as I travel.
The nomadic life has made me the wiser,
and a smile crosses my lips as I reminisce on how naive I was.
And so I proceed on my own path,
the infant of happiness nursed by my mother voyage.