I run my fingers over the topography
on the ceiling above my head.
It's fitting.
There's a map at the top of the world,
but I can't read it.
I don't know how to get out.
I'm standing on my bed,
looking down at the place where I sleep,
the place where I've bled and cried
and died every tiny death
the world could throw at me,
dreaming of the larger ones to follow.
Is this a river?
Is this a mountain?
Is this a road that I can walk on?
Where does it end?

05/10/2016

Posted on 05/10/2016
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