My moral compass is delicately crooked,
always pointing East even when aware of the descending sun.
I need to deconstruct this internal locus and reassemble cell by cell,
until I am unaffected by the magnetic people and their vigorous pull.
So subtle is the change of direction that happens every day.
So obvious is the need for control in solely my own way.

But to reject all other poles is irrational,
because in the end,I would be a slender silver needle spinning wildly with no direction.
Even the voluntary can seem controlled by an unspeakable force,
or the nudge of a voice whispering the next move into my ear.
Should I follow the South of my ancestors or the East of my peers,
the West of society? The North of my fears?

A push one way fails to answer any questions,
disorienting my lead and un-aligning the poles.
For now I will pause in the grey area of each direction ,
silently waiting for a queue from within
a neutral force in a battle I can not win.

Yet, I can not wait here forever .
Eventually the needle will stop spinning,
and the navigation will begin.