The ribcage hurts.
The pounding of the bone
deafening the cackling cracks
that echo into recesses of the body.

Vortex within the lungs,
laconic length of air.
A frantic rush to the shining surface
from beneath the infinity of the sea.

The Compass spins
like a twirling rotor.
The needle is restless
but who can blame it,
for it has rested for a time seemingly eternal.

Naïve to those who believe
in everlasting euphoria,
Things are not made to last.
Wear and Tear, beyond repair.
Repair? Why yes it’s possible.
But remnants of the stiches remain
a scar of the forgotten past.

The Heart beats softly now,
silently….
gently…

The needle of the Compass weakens,
wobbling out
of
its plane.
It loses speed. But it waits.
slowly…
patiently…
To rest in that same direction again.