The Searchers

Twisting, turning trails,

wheels pounding on the rails,

wind filling the weather-beaten sails,

we are the pathfinders,

paying ignorance to the faultfinders,

obeying the heart spellbinders,

searching for the only one;

the soul who could eclipse the sun.

When will the race be won?

But what if all efforts asserted,

end up fruitless, broken, inverted,

and we find ourselves deserted?

Suffer not the thorns wrapped and wound,

or the chains that keep you bound,

for we are the ones who have been found.

It may come as some surprise,

there was another searching likewise,

and we’ve become their sunrise.