In between the sky and you there is a haze that I don’t know how to break through.
In between the Moon and me there is a clarity that I’d bet my life you could see.
I know what’s in my serpentine mind, I know all the corners and grooves. I’ve felt all the textures, hated parts, and loved a lot of them too.
The sign doesn’t always say, “you are here,” with an arrow on fire. The sign can’t always get you in and out completely unbruised.
I follow the arrow I have burning in my chest. I will light one up and shoot it in the sky to you.
The turns and the twists, the fake doors and the mirrors in your head make the sign spin. “You are here,” doesn’t matter if you don’t know where you want to go or have been.
I don’t know how to make a road map. I only have a compass that doesn’t spin. But I grip it with all my might and will it to take me to the other side.
Take my hand, close your eyes, ignore your labrinth, and let me and my compass be your guide.