He cranes tiredly over folds of parchment As sunlight falls across his ashen features And the restless night becomes lost Within a sea of fading maps and broken compasses.
Worn pencils collect on hardwood like dust, And discarded errors in calculation fall into the corners. He stumbles weakly between varying levels of consciousness, And exhaustion claims an inch more of his body With each exasperated flutter of his eyelids.
He spins the globe to his right with a lazy hand And catches Africa with his finger Wishing that he could’ve been anywhere but here Because it is immeasurably heartbreaking To have the entire world at your fingertips And to have never seen any of it.