The Map

I have a map, the one I’ve used.
Its wrinkled, folded and abused.

The map, it is the world I roam.
Over horizons, ways back home.

Through the years, me and my map,
I’ve noticed flaws but now a gap.

Things that should be on the paper.
Naught but void and space and vapor.

World and map look differently.
Does not reflect reality.

Disturbed in part, but it gets worse.
Something’s off something’s perverse.

The space I saw is something more.
The open ocean has a shore.

A shore thereby should not exist.
What else might this map have missed?

The marks of peril make no sense.
Do well-worn routes hide bad intents?

The lines tell lies for something else.
From these flaws my faith soon melts.

This map, my guide, my way, my creed.
Believed in word, believed in deed.

Word seems off and deed’s a skew.
My eyes revolt, my heart’s a coup.

The map’s a world that is not real.
To not get lost, to not reveal . . .

Reveal what? The truths be hidden?
Why would truth be so forbidden?

How do I know the things I knew?
Where am I, what should I do?

Maybe observe, walk with this knowing.
Of less unseen, more foregoing.

Like a dream but wide awake,
With map that seems to be a fake.