The wanderer

The stone wall upon which he sits is crumbling, rough and moss covered, but it is home. 
He stares up at the migrating geese, their honks loud and clear in the crisp air. 
“They’re going the wrong way,” he thinks, half heartedly wishing he could go with them. 
When he visits the wall, the world becomes silent, and somehow, someway, he feels okay. 
Almost dusk, amongst the stones he doesn’t need to have a future.

Or a plan. 

His soul feels old, trapped in the body of someone who’s bright enough to do great things. 
Why does one’s passion melt away when given the chance to put it to use? 
He ponders till dark, and goes back to where he came from. 
A wanderer's world is never to be set in stone. Sometimes that’s why great minds go to waste.