by Fyn -
Unfortunately, life comes with neither a map, nor directions
|I cling to an antique compass,
As if it could help,
As if it could suddenly point the way.
My way to…where?
My mind’s eye cannot see across
The wasteland of my life, nor
Can it penetrate
the miasma of mismapped thoughts.
Thoughts that spark only to sputter out
Leaving me helpless in their darkness.
I cannot think.
Such a simple thing, really, to think.
The North Star has been obscured
By the fog, heavy and thick,
Oozing across the valley of my mind.
The only thing I feel
Is the cold steel of a broken compass
That can neither point to true north
Nor lead me safely home.
It is said the physically lost oft wander in circles.
My mind circles around and around on itself,
A sinking spiral, a bottomless void
Pulling me ever deeper into oblivion--
Plummeting within myself
no longer with the energy
To flail or fight.
At least down is a direction.