the stars, the sea, and sleep.

Monday, March 2, 2009

Without Direction

This compass twirls and curtsies in ballet flats
As question marks prance on arterial maps.
I fire flares for no one there,
A shooting star with an arc of smoke
Upon which I wish,
But then I choke.

I'm lost and without direction
And there are too many paths to my pictured perfection.

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