Compass Pointing North.

Yesterday, the train came roaring down the tracks
And stopped just outside my house.

I see you outside, painting the house in crimson colors,
Red and blue and green, a yellow sunflower. You look at the sun,
Glance up at it as one would stare at a compass,
A simple strain of words, sounds, thermodynamics.

I am standing in the dirt road that leads away from the house,
Leads towards places unknown, places I have never been. Clouds flicker away
Like shadows and breathe drops of oxygen. I stand here. Looking upward,
Looking skyward, like broken roads and broken dreams that shutter down
Like butterflies, wings of grace. Lightning flickers through October skies.
The heat is intense, a heat that is like summer.

Around me, the world opens like a flower, like a quilt out of sunshine,
A darkness that pours from the streams of broken roads.
Tell me what you like.
Tell me what you hate, the words ripe and raw, shadows shinning up chimneys.
Old men push wheelbarrows, spirits roam ancient worlds and cast spells to wanderers,
Wanderers looking for things to eat.
Potatoes, salad, lemonade, I told you this distance would never do,
You told me you understand.

I am not a memory. I am a stepping stone of geometrical shapes,
I am a noun, a piece of rainbow, a shard of glass. The realness is whole. The wholeness

Is real. I am who I am within myself. I right wrongs.
Sometimes, they break me-sometimes, they put me back together again.

Sometimes, I was never broken. Dreams are written in chalk and smoky mirrors.