The city,
The country.
The directions proposed;
I can't see but one.
A life lived by the slope of a mountain,
An internal compass has been etched,
Bored.
I stumble upon my misgivings,
And find,
To stand,
I am pulled.
A moral compass forms the bedrock
Of this modern machine.
The poetic signature
Informing my pace.
A journey has no beginning,
All to observe,
An immediate future.
And maintain.
Though I crave a destination.
