The Nomad

The nomad lives on, taking root in
nothing but his own sense of self
Progressing alone, seen by several,
noticed by no one, motives unkown,
He is a chameleon in a way, naturally
unnoticed, though sometimes seen,
Unshaken and indifferent to superficial adgitation
He is the manifestation of the absence of ego
Frigid and rigid and as steadfast as
The ice berg that sank the titanic
He makes his humble home if
he pleases and where he needs it,
With little to nothing on his plate
It isn't much but he eats it
Every once in a while a woman will stop by
He enjoys her fruits of love
They quickly turn to sweet wine
Then sour vinegar and she is gone
The Nomad goes back to his path
For he has no true home
This man was meant to live alone.