Poetry

At times we are only set on passing,
without any place to stop or call home
and then we miss the smallest little things,
while it feels as if we do not belong,
as we are set, forever more to roam
as if we hear faint whisperings among
a myriad of people, with dusty loam
that sticks and clings to our very feet
 
and then we miss the small bird’s happy song,
see unfamiliar faces in those we meet,
in life we are constantly swept along,
as if the ocean has only some foam
and to it there is nothing really sweet,
at times we are only set on passing.