Anchorless

I will write convoluted today
The end of the old and the start of the new
Rudderless and anchorless
Or maybe that is just imagination

Who will understand what I say?
But isn't that what makes writers?
People who write because they can, because they feel
Because they know and because they know no other way

The end of the old, and what always was
And how it was and little things
It zero dependence, zero despondency
2 months, 3 months..how long will it take?

How do I judge? How do I gauge?
I don't, I just let it be
I imagine myself strong, hair tied back
Bag at my back, all neat and professional
Not an emotion, not a thought, not a hair out of place

We all go through processes
Tried and tested methods, chicken soup, music and hugs
No more vodafone calls, no more routine
No more of the old, the old has ended
No more of the new, the new hasn't begun

How does hope still spring eternal?
I seem to have an endless reserve for it
Or I am just a victim of the novels
I refuse to be cynical
Or jaded or weird

I just want to be...and be graceful
Dignified and me...
Strong, neat, professional,
No more pleading or justifying
No more force, just be

Free will..
As for destiny, we shall see