An unfinished poem

As I wait
For it to be clear,
It gets a little murkier still
The directions, the roads,
And the destinations,
Seem a little farther still.

The wanderlust, the open eyes
The craving in the middle of the night
The blanket hot and cold the same
The reading by the candlelight

The solitary temple by the fields
The fireflies, the mellow dark,
The lonely walk to nowhere
The differences in colors so stark

A fish in the pond,
And a frog in the well,
Once taken across the timeless wheel.
A burning itch, and a soulless ditch,
No backward glance, a game of chance.

On these and much more, now I dwell.

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