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Devin Ortiz Apr 2020
My falling out with the Cartographer was not absolute.
Though it's easy to notice when the deep gravity of the Universe,
has been reduced to the mundane whispers of the ordinary.

The strength of loyalty is tested in these blind walks of faith.
As the world unfolds beneath my feet, the mind too does wander.
Hidden worlds vibrate between reality and fiction.
I map this microcosm of the known, to reach the ever after.

And so it goes that in my purposeful aimlessness, I'll find the road back.
Every excuse will always be, but letting go will set me free.
Free to once again entangle creation's creativity.
Emma Dec 2019
There’s this new scar down the back of your hand.
“New” implying that once in the recent past it was absent from your skin.
And you didn’t really mean for it to be there, this faint red line,
Sitting too close to the lone freckle that exists on the back of your palm like Polaris.
Because now it’s a constant reminder of how you got it.
And scars do not fade easily from your skin.
annh Mar 2019
My tears; your pillow,
An unmapped territory.
Will you help me chart this new country?
Or leave me - unto myself -
An island of sorrows?
‘Sometimes a map speaks in terms of physical geography, but just as often it muses on the jagged terrain of the heart, the distant vistas of memory, or the fantastic landscapes of dreams.’
- Miles Harvey, The Island of Lost Maps
David FauntLeRoy Aug 2015
The world is often smaller
Than the maps we hold in our hands

Though vision made concrete
Is the true fruit of anyone’s plans

Maybe that marks the difference
Between apathy and awe
How grandiose our vision
Before digesting what we saw

Imaginations fueled
Scraped knees
Building kingdoms in our minds
Woodland forts out of reeds

Don’t let anticipation
Spoil the ground beneath your feet
Nor adventure in action
Outweigh the visions that you seek

This world is often larger
Offering what could never be foreseen

Etch your maps, clutch them tight!
Though pay heed to the road before you

And all the spaces in between
Borges Nov 2014
Y la cartografia no importa y sigo escribiendo como los dias de ayer con las manos quemadas y mi maquina que no existe.

Sanitarios en manos y muebles en caricias.
Kyle Kulseth Aug 2014
She's all Spring and Summer
         and words of shelter
He's all maps and formlines
        in wings for Springtime

Take these tattered ghosts
                    from their trenches
ink-smeared, tethered tight
                      to the depth curve
Autumn only waits for the silent
                       ones sometimes.

"If their voices chase
                   out the brisk months,
quiet those windy wights
                     with a new song.
Autumn only waits for the silent
                      ones," she said.

In 3/4 time
the distances unwind
so swiftly
Afterburn of quiet nights
                      glows, fading.

He's all sovereign anger,
               righteous, stiff
                      but twisting
She's all cavalier, now--
               cat-quick through

Past the legends,
               rose our directions
Keyed to Winter's
                 dumb introversions
Years just spilling over the levee's
                         prescribed edge.

With their weathered ghosts
                           in the trenches,
tired-eyed, tethered tight
                          to the map's edge
Autumn only cares for the silent
                             ones some days.

— The End —