I am a wanderer by choice
A lot in which I oft rejoice;
I pay no heed to any voice
Except my very own.
Through villages and

Blank Canvas

Born into a family poor and struggling
The child followed suit
He worked beside his father
In the fields that all

Look. All these years, miles, triumphs and
tragedies that are written across my face
and still, to you, I am a blank canvas
waiting

A wise old friend stopped by to see,
Our newborn on that first week.
He placed a shaking, gentle hand,
Upon her tiny, pink

I hope you don't mind

If I use tried and true rhythm

If I choose words that rhyme

Rather than cadence that seems blithesome