A map uncharted with such distant lands
As those which most do confidently roam,
Blank as the canvas of an armless man,
No city to caress and mark as Home.

This is where I roam.

A beating, ceaseless inner compass guide,
Held together by demagnetized poles,
Not even a seashell's murmur of tides 
Is heard in this world of dewy-eyed souls.

This is where I toll. 

Alas, when headlights finally appear,
Piercing the bliss of pure and empty snow,
There sounds no hooting but the one of fear,
One that only the lonely hearts can know.

This is where I go. 

Onward through the never-ending darkness 
I march, heedless of Love's rotting carcass. 

This is my only catharsis.

Brinn W.