Spanning across the ragged paper in a glorious fashion,
Sharp edges against the greasy fingertips of past men,
Ink hardened by ages of use and light,
Crinkled by the square folds made long ago.
Made to accommodate a pocket or bag,
Held for quick use, if an opportunity were to arise,
Use of finding somewhere new, somewhere unbeknownst,
If only to add to what has already been found.
A map so weathered by age,
Dust manifested like a parasite, in each broken corner,
Signs of misuse so brightly uncovered, a stain, a burn,
A bird dropping, a cut from a knife, all from a different place, each on it, in ink.
It has seen many a place, sea and land alike,
Jungle and plains, mountain and desert, evidently seen without it's glorious sheen,
Ink never buckled under the conditions, crisp and clean.
Overbearing was it's missions it could not fail.
Created to mark and record, it lays easy when one is done,
On to the next one, somber not a chance, gleams of more in its compass eye,
Years would pass until another was drawn, by another hand or same,
No difference was it too the map, it's owner a scoundrel or knight.
The map never batted a lash, winced in pain,
When the quills whipped and lashed,
For it was the comfort in knowing, that for its suffering it was providing,
Providing a map, a map for which all could use.
A map that sailed the seas, crossed the deserts,
Traversed the white mountains, blazed through the jungles,
A map that would be copied and shared, a thing from which knowledge would stem,
Ideas would flourish, inventions would be invented, all because of one single Map.
- A