I write and such

The wanderer. A man without a home, I wonder if the world often has a place for wanderers? Without pasts, without futures, no place to call home. It matters not whether it is streets, continents or galaxies a man wanders. Who is a man without a home? A man without a face? A man without a name? Where a man is found is the color of her eye's, where he lay his head and loose his mind. the eye's of a weary wondering soul lost and dilute, for home is nothing without the color of her eye's. No fear, no legacy, as great as the company of her eye's. where you lost? Why her eye's? The care The wonder the compassion of a wounded soul A place to finally call home The faith of the lost, the broken and the damned. That light of glimmering hope can be found in the color of her eyes where the world comes to an end and home is finally found by a nameless, faithless man. In the color of her eye's - Unknown.(well me of course but my nome de plume i

I've often wondered what changes the world has seen fit to bestow. The truth isn't what the truth is, we are all but human's and simply make mistakes. How I wish those small things could be forgotten, those trespasses caused by the loss of my own humanity. I've often wondered what love feels like but I have never had the opportunity to find life. See for within life there has never been the opportunity for me to love. Neither with the smell or texture that I have wished it or the desire of a thousand night's spent hungry. The world itself has deemed to remain loveless in my absence, and by abstaining it has never been the truth of itself. I would of course gladly do or say anything that brought about my knowledge of that one person I have always sought after, however never had the proclivity ability to find. For the truth of desire is simply the desire to seek love, now I am going to have to leave this world and never come back again for I have failed in every and