by Kat Comer
Where is the map that would lead me to you?
So often I lose my way, a child.
I grope blindly along a dark trail
through rocky terrain.
Covered in dust, I wander
a nomad on the edge of madness.
I slip and fall on razor sharp stones
that shred my feet
to a crude mosaic of skin and blood.
I am alone.
I am child, nomad. Unformed. Unfinished.
Finding you is not easy.
Even the moon's light is out.
So I stop, wait and listen.
Turn inward to my center
where the silence is thick and deep as night.
I turn black in the stillness, a black flame
ready to ignite.
Such is my power.
In the distance the howl of coyote
rises with the new moon.
I feel my own howl rise
splitting my night
into a constellation of stars.
I am formed. I create.