I’m not just me, I’m at least three.
One sailed far hoping to be free.
One steamed airless more recently.
The oldest walked a vast frozen sea.
With passing generations this matrix grows complex.
A boundless atlas made of tiny specks.
Paper lines divide the pages of our time.
Ignorance is bliss, blindness sublime.
Unfurl the man-made charts, the journey’s just begun.
The ship of fools adrift, nowhere left to run.
Invaders, settlers or immigrant be –
all driftwood from the churning sea.
Time whispers on the ever-changing breeze.
One-eyed pirates still plunder all the seas.
Children wander a water-less beach.
Welcome shade out of reach.
To find a paper line they roam.
To find a future to call a home.
Pages of the atlas grown,
each a page we call our own.