The compass spins in a frantic dance
Round it goes through the cardinals
As the knights watch in patience
Waiting to tell the horse where next to go.
The ink is dry, the lines are blurred
Misdirection is sure, a waste journey for the seeker
This or that, not sure
They held where their instincts scream the most
Image generated using Gemini AI
He chase the ghost of a faded ink
With no familiar path to trust
Hoping that his judgement is right
His fate left for the wild to tell
Yet in the void where the meaning fled,
Between the "was" and the "yet to be,"
A different path begins to spread
Unbound, unmapped, and strangely free
