Wayward Compass

No great
Star-crossed love
In this sea of
Forever what-ifs
Just the changing
Tune of indifference
Set to a lonely
Dissonant jazz

Where daydreams
Call my bluff
And soften blows
With wishes
I cling to
While I’m crashing
When pillows
Grow their arms

Like fictions
Kept intact
For survival
Of this heartbeat
Which longs to seek
Its rhythms
In sync
Beneath these sheets

By gifts
Of restful sleep
As the hands
Of sweetest poisons
Pour syrups
Swallowed weakly
From the spoons
Of angels real

Tonics
Dry and flat
With a hint
Of aging flavors
Purported
To be medicine
For the souls who drink
No wine

Bitter
As staunch belief
Uncorked
From bottles waiting
Among stones
And cobwebs nestled
Within barrels
Built of fear

Cellars
Cold yet damp
Mindscapes
Missing sunlight
And tragedy
Through this silence
Of my bedroom
Dark and dull

How direction
Has no chance
For its line
To be distinguished
Like notes
Of vying players
In a band
Without one voice.

– J. Pigno

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