She’s an aimless wanderer,
her ashy hair tangling as she goes.
Serenity is etched onto her face,
a confusing state for other souls.
Lonesome strides are a sinner’s game,
her frequency higher, serene, not the same.
Weltschmerz consumes her, yet she strides in spite.
She runs with no aim, no thrive for perfection
for the word is man-made.
She sees no ends, no norm, no reflection,
just an aimless wanderer, any judgement in vain.
She runs no direction, no reflection, no name.
A courageous, faceless piece of earth,
surrounded by insane.
All and nowhere.