The outsider

I’m the poor outsider
hitchhiking cars to reach my home;
the strange and ghostly driven rider,
here and there I’m along;
in my old-fashioned leather jacket,
in my worn-out shabby jeans
I’ll do it, yeah, I’ll make it -
as usual, outsiders win.

I’m driven, driven forward -
by beating heart I’m in a move,
I’m always here on a road
as if I to the road glued;
the mountains with stairs to Heaven,
the valleys with profound dreams
where the ravines are as graven,
they all wave bye-bye to me. 

Though it’s hard to get the gist
of their cognitive idle talk,
I do remember Jesus Christ
while passing overhanging rock;
and being familiar with the doubts
from early childhood ever since,
I’m looking, looking for my outs
to run away from all my sins.   
 
My way is smoky of the fire
I use to kindle on every verge, 
when overcome them being tired
the road is to me the couch.
I’m the poor outsider
wayfaring through the roads along;
I’m the dusk and ghostly rider
so hardly trying to come home.
31.07.2021 – 8.08.2021

P.S. The poem was written
after several heart attacks.