nephilim56 ( Norman Dickson)

THE MAP

When asked within
Past solitude
To guide a path
The cruel moon
Prying eyes
Glittering stars
A quiet night
Vibrating sighs.

No tears as yet
The hour strokes
The loneliness
Its bitterness stoked
The miles between
In leaps and bounds
A damning map
Each mile invoked.

Scented air
That teases time
A cuffed embrace
A flowing wine
Intoxicates thought
Caught between
Reality and
This stifled dream.