Wayward Souls

Useless thoughts spent on the flow of time,
echoes of yesterday lost in chime.
Said to die in never-ending overtures,
today’s has-beens, fading contours.

Deserters and lepers clutching tight,
grasping for survival in the rain’s cold bite.
Clinging to drops that fall like fate,
slipping through fingers that came too late.

Traveling the wrong, the wayward home,
seeking shelter, yet destined to roam.
A path that twists, a road that winds,
leading to places where comfort declines.

For what is a home, if never found,
a place that eludes, where sorrows abound?
The rainfall cleanses but leaves behind
the scars of survival, etched in the mind.

Time slips away, a river unbound,
drowning in thoughts where regrets resound.
Deserters of dreams, lepers of hope,
lost in the dark, with nothing to cope.

The wayward home is a ghostly mirage,
a flicker of light on a distant stage.
Yet still they wander, clinging to breath,
traveling onward through life’s cold death.

Useless thoughts spent on a dying sun,
counting the hours, yet reaching none.
For in this journey, we all are lost—
deserters of dreams who bear the cost.

So we march on through the shadows of time,
seeking a home where sorrows unwind.
But the wayward path is all we know,
a journey of has-beens, where no answers show.