The man, he wanders alone,
With a heart like a house he has never quite known.
He opens the door, lets love enter the room,
Then searches for a reason to summon the gloom.
He chases every sunrise, then curses at the day,
Finds fault with the road, yet keeps walking away.
A promise would frighten him, steady and true;
He fears what he’d lose more than what he might do.
He says, “You’re the one,” with a tremor of hope,
Then loosens his grip on the end of the rope.
For whenever contentment comes softly to call,
He mistakes it for boredom and wants it all.
He measures affection, compares every flame…
And searches for perfection, though none ever came.
So love after love slips away through his hands,
Like waves disappearing across silver sands.
Now evening falls gently on streets that he knows,
And time, like a river, continues and flows.
Hasn’t he learned that the heart can’t flourish or mend
If it’s always awaiting a better “next end”?
For happiness isn’t a prize to pursue,
Nor found in the life that is waiting for you.
It blooms when you cherish the moment you’re in—
But he keeps searching outward, and never looks in.
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