We are the lost generation
with paper compasses
that only lead us to
indefinite shores.

Budget shortcuts do not make up for
the lack of solid form in our lives.

We sail on ships
with sails punctured and torn
by the ghosts of our predecessors.

Unable to move with the wind,
we remain unmoving and still.

We are the crew with more barrels of *** than gold,
drunk on the idea
that salvation lies on steady ground.

But we are sailors,
feeding off the capricious waters of all seven seas.

We need a new guide,
as the Northern star
has now become nothing more than an arbitrary point
that leaves us sailing in circles.

Would you care to be my first mate?
I’ll take you places your mind
could not even bear to begin
to touch.