Pilot of Souls

I am a walking doorknob with picnic table legs. I stumble to the back of the room to evade a wild apparition. Force fed but not in doubt. Grout seeps from between the bricks of your big, big wall. Fall down and get up. Jump rope with some misanthrope. Elope with a cantaloupe. Shallow, shallow, shallow, you stare out into everyone's heart. Pilot of souls, you are, but you're never home. You never get to rest your legs by the fire. Travelers never find contentment until they are hustling, bustling, shuffling, their feet.