Compass Broken

Again, I unlock the Chest.

Parchment map, compass broken.

Choking dust covers the rest.

Yet, this I found, this Token.

Adventurer, I… Restless,

Ever-questing for my Gold.

Amidst these Tombs, Souls’ unrest

Reminds me. Loneliness. Cold.

Yet, the “X” is clearly marked

With ink distilled from Sadness.

On the trek, again I March;

Trodden path toward Madness.

© All rights reserved, 2017.

Blogging Poetry

Obol View All →

Obol is a poet and an infrequent writer of prose.

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