The Wanderers

This is for those who never stop and stay,
Those whom life never lets astray.
For they do not have a set path,
And for whom there is no hold steadfast.

They might be awalkin' amongst you guys,
Haunted souls who never seem unalive.
Either bristling with uncontained energy,
Or roving the depths, they will be!

Those who seem to have no home,
Roaming about like a vagabond.
Shooed wherever they might go,
By the others or their own heart's flow.

They're restless like a hungry fly,
And will be till the day they die.
For nothing will ever close the gap,
Their hearts posses, wide and agape.

They'll be a part of your life, Oh sure!
But constrain them and they'll make you sore.
For free spirits as them you'll never see,
Rebellious much, wild and free.

A speck is all that's left of them,
Once they're out and filled with phlegm.
And never will you see them again,
For they have places to be and things to attend.

Of course, what these be, they have no clue;
Fate springs it upon, out of the blue.
Making sure there's not a single day,
That they are a part of mediocrity's play.

They yearn for a land unextant,
Where they can live unmendicant.
A place where they might be at peace,
From the others' selfish greed.

These people they walk alone,
Sauntering, humming a song.
For who can hope to keep company,
To a soul which doesn't know it's symphony.

They're the stragglers that you see lying around,
When you're too busy running on with your frown;
Those for whom you laugh and say,
They're hopeless! They'll never be sane!

What can they do, when their flute;
Plays a haunting melody of disrepute.
Do they simply be a part,
Of your unquestioning farce?

You ask too much to wish for that,
They cannot be actors playing a part.
For one they know to be true,
The song will never lead them askew.

It might be a marching ballad,
That will make your limbs glad;
Or a funeral hymn,
Making your existence grim.

Whatever the song, and whatever the circumstance,
However they're treated by happenstance.
But one thing that will hold still,
Is in the end, the song, their whim.

These people, they might not amount to much,
Roaming around without direction or lust;
They might not lead forward man's way,
Or make millions in one swell lay.

They might not be known by all,
They might not be around when you fall.
They might not do what you say,
They will never shy away.

But to you, I do salute,
For in a world shamelessly lewd.
You are the only one left,
True to their hearts' heft.

You know who you are,
O lost ones!
Silent specters,
With sharp spectacles.

Know that you have a friend in me,
Someone to count on in need.
For if you are truly a wanderer,
You have in me a fellow traveler.