The Cartographer of Impossible Lands

I

Beyond the edge of ordinary maps
there lies a sea that hums in violet tones;
its tides obey no moon the eye can see,
its waves remember names no tongue can hold.
There sails a ship with silver-threaded sails,
stitched from forgotten promises of kings;
its captain charts the margins of the real
where logic frays and wonder takes command.

II

The compass there does not point north or south,
it spins toward longing buried in the chest;
the stars rearrange themselves at will
whenever doubt attempts to take the helm.
Clouds bloom like gardens made of whispered glass,
and thunder speaks in riddles half-translated;
the crew survives on fruit that glows at dusk
and water drawn from mirrored constellations.

III

One night they reached an island shaped like sleep,
where trees grew clocks instead of common leaves;
each branch ticked softly with another life
that might have been if courage had been chosen.
The sand was fine as powdered memory,
warm with the heat of unlived destinies;
to walk there was to hear your other self
call gently from a shoreline never touched.

IV

They found a city built of breathing stone,
its towers bending slightly when addressed;
the streets would shift to suit the traveler’s fear,
or widen when the heart began to trust.
Doors opened not by keys but honest truths,
and closed against the weight of silent lies;
the marketplace sold jars of captured dawn
and lanterns filled with disciplined lightning.

V

In caverns underneath the humming earth
slept dragons forged from unfinished regrets;
their scales were etched with words unsaid in time,
their breath was smoke of opportunities.
The captain did not raise a sword or spear,
he spoke aloud the vows he once delayed;
the dragons shrank to embers in the dark,
fed not by steel but by confession’s flame.

VI

Above the cliffs stood giants made of wind,
their bodies sculpted out of moving air;
they guarded bridges woven out of song
that trembled at the echo of despair.
To cross, one had to sing a truer note
than fear could counterfeit within the throat;
those who sang falsely fell through empty sky,
while honest voices carried weight as stone.

VII

A forest followed where the shadows bloomed
like orchids drinking silver from the moon;
there prowled the doubts that stalk all mortal minds,
with fur of ink and eyes of polished doubt.
Yet when the smallest cabin boy stepped forth
and named his trembling without shame or pride,
the beasts lay down like loyal winter hounds
and let the path grow visible again.

VIII

At last they reached the mountain made of glass,
its peak reflecting futures yet unformed;
each step revealed a version of the self
that might ascend or falter in the climb.
The captain saw himself grown old and kind,
and also crowned in bitterness and flame;
the summit was not guarded by a beast,
but by the weight of choosing who to be.

IX

No treasure chest lay buried at the top,
no jewel with power over time or death;
instead a mirror tall as destiny
stood waiting in the thin and lucid air.
To gaze within was not to see the face,
but every path abandoned in the past;
the bravest knelt and touched the mirrored frost,
accepting both the loss and what remained.

X

When they descended, something had been shed:
not coin nor blade nor map of secret seas;
they left behind the need for certain ground,
and carried home a tolerance for awe.
The city that once seemed unbreakable
now looked like scaffolding of fragile thought;
the market noise became a gentle breeze
beside the thunder of remembered giants.

XI

Back at the harbor where all journeys start,
the silver sails were folded into dusk;
the ship grew still as if it had been dream,
yet salt and starlight lingered on the ropes.
The captain hung his compass on a nail,
it still turned toward the pulse beneath his ribs;
for maps of impossible domains
are drawn in ink the world cannot erase.

XII

And somewhere past the border of the known
that violet sea continues breathing slow;
the island clocks keep ticking other lives,
the city stones still lean to hear the truth.
For fantasy is not escape alone,
but rehearsal for a larger sight;
who dares to chart the edges of the real
returns with wonder stitched into his bones.