"a cartographer's curse"

projection
of subtle fury -
how you come upon me
again,
lion in the afternoon -
am i nothing but
a sole weak mind?
or here, waiting for
anything but
nightfall?

but look you mighty shepherd
how doth the stars
climb the old jacobean ladder
to their flammable cradle
in the ink black sky.

with form and shape, i am not
but only where i am,
and how like a
cartographer's curse
am i, laden with the
burdens
of being and knowing
and thinking while allowing
no logic nor
the dove's heart
to spread the wings of my mouth
and cry through
my lips,
ignorant and slave-blind.

listen, pale weeping gods
of the wandering
(elusive)
dawn -

do you want
lips to do
what hands never dare?

what is this truth:

we.

existence is futile -
(hot ice under a summer sun)
and does not exist.

and we
are all one
and all alone.

so says i.