For Every Moment, a Poem

Roots

I often feel without a clue

of how I ought to stay so true.

What's black and white while I am blue.

An elixir, a mixture, one strange brew.

Of which one plus one is definitely two

and paper, pen are surprisingly new.

Oh what am I supposed to do?

I feel neither like the earth the sun

nor the wind within the sails.

Instead, when all my mettles done

I accept my path, my trail.

To be something new,

something sometimes blue,

something utterly true.