Wands

There a rootlessness brought on by being
Further away than I would like to be;
A sort of misdirected wrongly seeing
That makes a mental hobo out of me.
I wander in my mind and wonder what
The things I do could really ever mean,
While any meaning they could take is but
A figment of my overheated spleen
And everything is crooked. What I do
Seems oddly empty, like a vacant lot
Where skyscrapers should be. It's nothing new
Just the result of being where I'm not
And never being where I ought. I know
At least though where I really ought to go.