Wild.

I am shaped more than the rivers shape the lands. I am shifted more than the oceans shift the sands. I was carved with Her crude blade, with geodes, not diamonds, chaos and curls are how I was made. 

She left me to drift in and out of worlds. She left me to cling to a compass that doesn’t point North. An obsession with an arrow that constantly twirls.

Feral and kind I was left in the mountains to wade. From oceans to mountains to sand ridden isles I have been slaved.

Chained to the compass She burns in my skin; drifting and ebbing letting all of the dark and light in. 

Someone always wants to paint the driftwood. Hang it on the wall. Someone will hang the chimes and pray the wind will blow their way. They will try to harness the wild and bend it to stay. 

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