~

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.

*

The End

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