Tracked by a nostalgia for a past that cannot last
And didn't happen in the way I remember.
Time did not blossom nor bear fruit as expected.
I explored another slice of unaccommodated vivacity
As I wandered off the chart. Heartlessly hoping. 
Not a line of his writing have I
Not a curl of his hair.

We are transfixed by what is half-perceived, half-created
Glimmering on the periphery of vision
A sculpt'd intuition, a half-remembered song
Echoing and drifting along the road not taken

We do not know how and why we are moulded as we are.
Are we just genetic manifestations of an unbridled nature?
Or the mere slaves of influence?
Blank slates.

Or are we strangers in a strange land,
Blessed, or cursed,
By a desire to know and understand
Footsteps in the sand.