The Travelers

There are places that once and often had crept into my mind
Through the crevices of the voids which always exist in each of my present moment
Whenever I ain't traveling.

I am so fond of traveling that when I ain't doing the places,
I do the thoughts, the people, the interests, and the perceptions
So much so that people have waited too long enough to see my stabilized and static state
Before turning disappointed and making a decision to leave or stay.

And whenever I am on any travel
I carry a pocketful of dreams
And at every stop I collect wings of hope
To carry them back with me
Which I nurture in return, and use them to flutter myself away
From the futile shadows of the past.

And with those pocketful of dreams, I seek out for
An uttermost and distantly beautiful mountain top
Entering the voyeurism of admiring
How sunrays embrace those snow-capped peaks
Creating a perfect union of scorching hot and frosty cold
Letting their emotions, their love flow through the melting glaciers
Turning into the spilling of over-brinked emotions as waterfalls
Causing an endless flow of rivers and seas
Not stopping until the love reaches its eternal mergence

Where another set of my dreams
Sit on the rim of the earth
And gaze into the imperceivable depths
From the place which you call centre of the horizon.