There’s a mark on my map,
inked in oil and scratched in haste,
with a moaning mountain
scrawled beside it;
its peak laced in smoke
and dust.
There’s a line on my map,
drawn like a jagged smile across
the plains, eternally sneering
upon the compass,
daring it to falter and turn
its gaze.
There’s a sea on my map,
draped in rolling waves that peak
like summits, tempted to
swallow the earth
and drown the journey before it’s
begun.
There’s a chance on my map,
not rubbed in charcoal or sketched with quills,
but bleeding from beneath the
parchment, as if begging
the wanderer to become the
seeker.
Stellular Scribe 