Calling

By

Does one ever know what calls them,

Must they only feel the pull—

A relentless, urgent prodding,

Silent, yet unshakable?


It speaks in wind through barren branches,

In footsteps pressing through the dusk,

In echoes of a dream forgotten,

Yet stirring embers in the dust.


Not a voice, yet still it whispers,

Not a hand, yet still it steers,

Not a map, yet still it beckons,

Through the weight of restless years.


Is it fate or is it longing?

Is it written or unknown?

Does one follow or become it—

The call that carves them into form?




Just scratching where it itches!

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