The Wandering Poet - Fiction

 

The wandering poet knows no home. The world is her bed with thick pillows. She drinks the ink and studies leaves on trees, knowing that the inspiration is right in front of her.

Her eyes aren’t real. They are two violet coloured orbs that look into the future and turns it into a wild wave. She makes friends with strangers because they live one second to the next.

She writes her poetry on the beach, above the mountains, and under the oceans. She is not afraid of losing them, only that they will last beyond time.

Her wide brim hat shields her from the sun’s affection while her cloak was made from the tears of the moon.

She thinks. She writes. She loves. All given freely. She wanders because her feet must move. She knows that no grass will follow her. The moss will find another home.

The wandering poet sighs as the rivers wave to her. She knows that she is loved.

Come, she says. Let me feed you with my words. Let me show you what the world can do. I accept her invitation and then comes Once Upon A Time. . . .