My heart's oscillating
between things not fascinating.
If only something unearthly
reveal the plot, mundane seemingly.
I've traveled way too far
from the routine. Though the star
lit the way that few might sail,
the water is growing sickly pale.
Has it, as a voyage,
named itself pretty mirage,
in which at every oasis
I filled my bags with sand? Geraniums,
please replenish my heart
with blossomed smile and embrace.
I'll throw myself in the warm cage
and start another journey in haste.