Compass

I drift through days
idling in gear
wondering what made the
space this way, who closed
all the blinds
and spread this smoke that
plays with each blade of light.

One cannot look in every
direction at once.
His needle swings wildly
searching,
infinite paths in a glass
in my outstretched fingers.

I sail a globe
in a wink; I see
stages and prison cells,
coffee shops, and her
fingers running up my spine
gently massaging each
nook like a warm shiver.

I smell dust that rises
from drawings
etched into stone, each
telling of conquests
that rise and fall, (as she
is breathing), and great tables
of great kings rise,
and great minds piece
a world together,
and bards sing stories
while birds sit by
and listen.

I find a wealth
of worlds, worlds of
wealth, power,
hands tight around ropes
that lift skies into their moment.
Each sun blazes in my
arms, and I see their faces
lifting, tumbling
upside-down, eyes closed,
smiling.

And I open mine
to find
that my toes haven't yet strayed
across the pale green carpet.