He Who Wanders

Once I drifted,
Untethered, untouched
But for the lapping sea
Below. I washed
In waves
Past shores of soft silt
While the stars whirled
In distant circuits
Overhead. Bound for beauties
Always beyond

The horizon, I sated myself
On the freedom
Of the current, content
In the sting of salt
And the briny embrace. At the will
Of wind and water,
I strayed.

I strained
For years, fed on half-
Formed hopes
And fever dreams
Of fantasy isles
And gilded treasures, I trusted
In the promise of the unknown
Whose unreason I regarded,
For its illogic

Was liberation. But liberty
Is not in losing
Oneself. Nor is it in wandering
As you wish. It is your arms
That anchor me, your touch
That breaks the tempest, your hands
That harbor a home
And nurture

Still sanctuary. I yearn now
For your yoke
Upon my shoulders, and long
To live in the choke
Of your chains. Bind me
In your caress, and build a cage
Of your care, for that

Is freedom: to brave
The stormy surf without fear
Of fate, to dock in days
Of want or need. This thread
That ties us
Will ever tug us together.