Where's My Map?

Where's My Map?

Shrunk like a disillusioned child, I rest with burdened legs.
In search of an unattainable canopy, I trudge and stumble.
My eyes depress, and I see.
Her mouth carved like an incomplete yawn;
pleads for the unrest, for vengeance that ricochets.
Naked fingernails protrude from under sedimentary rocks -
a token of strength. Perhaps they composed a peace song,
yesterday, when she laid against a cork tree.

I think of a wife, a wishful son – waiting.
A husband’s honour, a father’s strife; detonation,
cited on a leaflet.

I picture home,
to capture the trail of burnt toast -
there’s only the loitering smell of burnt cordite.
I shut my eyes; the maple leaf has little stains of grain dust.
Maybe opened, they will seek children running in a rye field;
or eyes like glistening saucers that cast gentle smiles,
or innocence lost in throes of pubescent laughter.
Part of a poem is recalled, “There is no greater sorrow
than thinking back upon a happy time in misery.”
Cavum in spirit is the only reality.

With bleak eyes I stare down at my boots;
I see them – exhibited, a major reciting its great adversities;
an awestruck bunch.
They are wise shoes, experienced shoes – desolate owner.
Panic driven thoughts reverberate a chant,
Where is my map?
Where is my map?
Where is my map?