Here are the lines of ink I trace,
to decipher the language
of my own conscience.
And these are the frailties I face -
I am the eye of the storm, so still
whilst chaos converges around me.
Similarly I trace the lines of maps,
and hope that perhaps,
I will travel along them one day.
The cracks and crevices of the earth
run true as blood beneath rock,
as veins do beneath my skin.
I am alive.
But there is no peace for me upon this hill.
The view is obscured by their obscenities -
their grip on my pen.
They force a magnet upon my compass,
and I am lost.
I am carving with a knife
that is as blunt as her words.
Death infects the bones of life.
And his absence haunts me,
for an absence.
I wonder, as my fingertips rest
at the edge of my map,
how I will ever come to live a life I'm proud of
with such examples as these.
This one is extremely personal, so I've no idea if it will mean anything to anyone else...but please feel free to let me know your thoughts if it does, or if it doesn't too.