Compass Point

Without the sound of tv
the echoing of voices and throbbing grows louder

Of all the gnostic neurons, I wonder which one are you?

I motion the mention of meaning, eclipse the eyes. I am blind.

Rote emotion for the wall. A defense against air like lead paint.
Promising, where my sight falls is an even ratio.

Each crack, like lightning, filling the weakness, riding each contour,
each groove of paint. Even the freckles breathe.

A contract expired, all language is ink, spackled on, int he clack or scribble of the hand.
I applaud with a pen. Empty remark on the checklist.

If you turn the angle sideays, the truth remains the same. A compass will still point north. The solution in which we float binds us together. The glass keeps us apart. Only our direction can guide us to where we want to be.

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