For he who wanders the long desolate roads, alone.
There is the occasional rose, in the dreariness,
the single spring, singing,
a rainbow stretched across the pallor,
which melts away the desperation of desire unfulfilled.
A voice, soft, yet subtly strong,
a hand that touches the conscience,
opens boundaries, previously a blockade
untangles knots, leads the way,
whispers of encouragement, from some where far off.
The sound of rushing wings,
the vision, a sentinel, in the mist of awakening dawn,
which beckons the wanderer on,
relief from hollow emptiness,
this is the swan.
Honorable mention
Adding your comment:
This is worth keeping, alright...but they can't have it; it's alllll miiiiiiine. 
Beautiful penning, Poet...although referring to a "sentinel" in a piece about lil' ol' me is more than a bit of poetic license employed with confidence. 
Hmmm...my name, Wanda Lea, means "weary wanderer"; it seems I was fated to be a writer. Thank you so much for your kind & thoughtful words, my Friend...Keep writing; from what I've seen so far, you have the Gift. Good luck in Nicky's contest. 
