No vision to guide a weary hand that strokes aimlessly to the sky.
With fists of white they curse above.
A blinding light responds.
Dissembled, tattered, encased by polar’d rock, not pointing to a compass
but, round it pivots and spirals so
to add confusion to this travel woe.
Adrift and alone. Only flights of fancy that catch an eye and paralyze
till burning tips of painted wings
cause a tumble towards a bluest ember’d coal.
What must it be, to have dotted line between left and right, continued onwards
through and over mountain crest.
A beacon to souls desire.
A calling home from far off lands through places yet unknown.
The journey is important,
while destination still is always known.
Instead, in chaos core adrift, a regal ship of war, with sail forgotten by
silent iron children.
Still a boat.
It's more like thought without a word.
Aimless throughout our conscious
with no doorway through becoming solid known.
Instead, it hides between words and lines
to some completely unheard.
To feel this curse is heavy.
But, unlike Atlas, temporary.
A limbo between dark and light.
My grey today will rain and wash away
my cloak of quills
and I shall shine no matter.
A star in heaven from far away
shall see me cry and
know my name.
On that day with fists of white,
what once was aimless strokes
connect to form a mast full sight
My painted life
of depth and hue