Its metal is heavy; Its needle trembles.
I hold a compass to my crimson heart,
In the silence, truths unravel,
The echoes of a journey, about to start.
The compass gyrates, a fateful dance.
I search for truth in its solemn gaze.
The needle whispers, in a tense romance,
In its murmurs, fears ablaze.
North was my guide, steadfast and true.
A constant for me, my guiding role.
I followed obediently as I was taught to do.
Yet still, the South beckons for my soul.
Why does this stirring unsettle my heart?
Is it fear of transgressing the status quo?
Or the dangers of a new, uncharted start,
Beyond what waits in known meadows.
Oh, how I admire the compass’s dance,
Its carefree swirl, so elegant and pure.
Now I see, caught in its rhythmic trance,
Neither to North nor South, endless allure.
In rhyme, in love, in life, structure rules all,
How binding are the rules in which we live.
Like the compass, my spirit takes its fall.
Spinning madly, nothing left to forgive.
In my palm, the compass’s weight subsides:
Its quiet dance and my learning soul.
Across branching paths, we all question,
How to mend hearts torn before.
Justin Kleidermacher
