Mental Vagabond

Why run around
Like a nomad with no home
Finding yourself at
the end of some
lonely dock
Where there’s nothing to do,
to hear, to say or see

You sit around in the emptyness
Wondering if it can be solved
By more suffering.

After you drag
Your sapped carcass away
The healing of bruises
Aleviates the pain.

You call it pleasure
And credit the same
Your pleasure and peace is lack of pain
A simply extraordinary confusion of names.