My compass can’t decide on a point.
And neither can my mind.
The list goes on as far back as the paces remain in the sand.
There was a time I would let the wind take me anywhere.
But these chains are ever so cumbersome.
Reality seems to want me right here.
There is no forcing the paradigm this time.
No amount of meditation can cleanse this sin.
For one can only ask for forgiveness so many times.
And now.
The tattoo remains.
Coiling about.
Ushering those dormant thoughts and urges.
Right to the very surface.
Only the seal.
Was lost some time ago.
Or rather thrown away.
But semantics will get us nowhere.
And neither will indifference.
Choice.
Follow the white rabbit.
Or believe.
That we forge our own luck.
Only there isn’t a single master about.
For all we truly do.
Is fumble with the tools.
And expect.
A masterpiece.