A Rolling Stone

Wide asleep or deep awake,
I wander through the seas.
Right or wrong, who's to judge?
But at least I am the master of my will.

I keep searching for the answer
Turning stones with restless unease
What am I meant to do here,
Can no one be pleased?

I could make my own rules
My own rulers, scales and yardsticks
But then if one size fit all,
There would be nothing to be achieved.

The stones I've all upturned,
But I can't move the rocks
And I dream of what would be underneath,
Do our dreams rule us, or is it the other way around?
Thats a question for another day...

Speaking of rocks and rock-faces,
I dreamt of a face once
Felt its serenity from close and far
Rock solid, it made me stay

On the rocks, I spent my days
Gazed deeper into the faces
Until the gazes turned into chisels
Drilling out the dust and the ashes

Rain or shine, the rock kept still
I wanted to leave, but the rock had a free will
Freedom is overhyped,
Freedom can kill
Free will - who can debate thee?
But I'd rather be chained, than cease to be

And then I stumbled upon the grass
That bent with the flow, yet held its head high
Down in its apparently shallow roots,
I found my presence still lurking
Beckoning me back

I want to turn around and roll in the plains
Feel the mud in my feet, and the moist breeze on my cheek
But I must roll ahead,
For a rolling stone gathers no moss.

I don't want to slip on the moss again.