bedraggled questors

we drag our rag-covered selves from one beggar to another

hoping to touch comfort

or

find an answer to our quest

we are bedraggled questors longing for satisfaction

struggling to live from this moment or the next

we're a parade of hobos decorating local streets

clothed in the vesture of ministers of shit

filthy, funky, faint

walking ahead

moving toward the Light 

looking back

looking back

looking back

looking back for the moment

the place  the pleasure

the peace

the experience of joy gone since the Then

when all of me was flying high

on a cloud of "always"

of "when-ever"

of "again and again"

but now

memory attempts a recall

of "when i was"

oh, how i sulk o'er the garbage of ev'ryday

o'er the thrust of "must and can't"

o'er "my-way and wants"

o'er the drudgery and dust

as i stare back to Then

"the moment"

the pace

the joy

the pleasure

the peace

that's gone