To where now?
It's not like I'm at a fork.
More of a spoon in the road.
Collecting stagnant fluid.
Rotting.
Plotting events hidden behind unseen horizons.
Skylines I'll never see.
I keep squinted eye poised on pathless route.
I fumble with maps drawn in crayon.
I keep ear to wind in earnest hope.
Hope of hints.
Hope of tracks in morass moss.
Some indication of somewhere to be.
Some plod, or plot, or spot.
Carved in my image.
Calling me home.