In the air
Like static, unspent.
Is the fear of time, and purpose wasted.
Everyday which goes by,
Without a routine,
(With, or without?)
It can scratch against my ‘ground’
Like a big fat Bat (or a rat)
Round bound (hush hush, why why!?)
Hard sweeping brush.
It’s etching away at the trail which I’d marked myself, in the vain hope I could ever, if needed, turn to the tattooed ground.
(What, and be found?)
To remind myself of the way I am headed, and the way I have come.
The path upon which, I thought I had gained some footing, it’s fading.
(and i’m not far behind)
It is during these moments, when locked inside,
A tightly binding labyrinth,
Of excessive reflection, that I long for the traveller’s Compass, to remind me of…
Which direction to take? In order, to step forwards and march on!
Sometimes, the colours on life’s map become faded.