I wandered, lonely...
no vales, no hills, just floating,
And life, below, was a still shot
forever hung in black and white

Lake shores and trees
held still, no breeze...
with a magnificent splash of yellow
stuck in time, between fluttering moments

and I, the forbidden observer,
unable to escape the scene

Ten thousand memories
glowing brightly in bleak surroundings,
yearning to be free, to dance,
yet conquered by my withering stare

a never-ending line
marking ticks with their tocks
from the end of my nose...
to eternity

It's been said
that "A poet could not but be gay,
in such a jocund company"
yet, with this sight along the bay...

I felt nothing remotely reminiscent
of a smirk, not a smidge, didn't smile

that, dear friend, is exactly when it hit me,
sudden squalor, I imagined petals trembling
for if such a sight could not move me
then I must not be what I claimed

I am no poet, don't mark me as such
for all I do is wander
lonely, as a cloud, casting shadows
on every daffodil I meet












**response work to, and quotation from "I wandered lonely as a cloud"
by William Wordsworth, 1804