A Compass With No North

Like the Minotaur lost in the labyrinth I search. The path doubled back, the way elusive. For me the pen is heavier than the sword. A man who starts but rarely finishes. Not a firebrand, a dud match.

Tried for the warrior-poet, I am neither. Notebooks, journals full of words pressed together in the dark. Words words words. A mouth full of clichés. A lifeboat caught in a maelström, a compass with no north. Memory closets cluttered, the bone dry rattle dancing in the dust. Hallways that lead nowhere, barred doors, opaque windows. Too much seeker, never enough doer.

I think often on death. Not death as an abstract concept, death as absolute/concrete reality. My own death. To what greater purpose have I put my life while waiting for the deus ex machina to show? We cannot all do great things, but the little things count.

I feel it
Perched high up on vision’s periphery
The blue black bird,
Stranger to me.
Down drops death
The drop fast, the trauma blunt.
A controlled fall
The hammer blow
The shock to the system.