Meandering

Sunday morning, early and still,
The world awakens with a purpose, a will.
I, a wanderer, meander with no aim,
Through streets and dreams, an aimless game.

The other souls, with focus clear,
On their path, a purpose sincere.
As they navigate life's turbulent sea,
I watch in wonder, what's my decree?

In an empty coffee shop, I take my seat,
With my phone in hand, I find my retreat.
Meandering thoughts, just like life's stream,
Lost in the whirlpool of an aimless dream.

But in this emptiness, I see a grace,
A canvas of life, an open space.
For sometimes in aimlessness, we may find,
The beauty of existence, the wandering mind.