North to none, the void of night,
South to skies and gift of sight,
West to wings of worlds to write,
East to all engulfed by light.
North to numbers' ceaseless flow,
South to souls of winds ablow,
West to wax wicks, waning slow,
East to echoes doomed to grow.
North where naught is different daring,
South with sundered souls despairing,
West of time and words uncaring,
East––the end of world sans bearing.
The longer the winds blow, the further we travel toward unheard echoes, the more we yearn for that which we can never attain. So close, and yet so far...the path in the rubble, the arrow in the dust...the soul is but a sail, destiny but a destination...within the tempest that is time, we all seek our bearing.
