stepping gently
beckoned by this sea of
moonlight

fog floods the wood--
each step taken
as vacant as the last.
lost in the mist
direction serves no purpose

left could be right
forward might as well be
backward
i can't find my way alone
but i haven't a compass

your voice is my beakon
will you call out
so i might find the way?

i've brushed shoulders with you before
i felt you
somewhere in my soul

stretch out your hand again
reach through the veiled cloud
touch my life
and let me touch yours


--

somehow nothing seems to be my own. everything has been molded, inspired by the world around me--by everything i've seen, touched, breathed, read, experienced. even this piece of wondering doesn't belong to me. i've always thought that i would think and write for myself, and i have. i haven't, though, written solely for myself--which isn't necesarily a bad thing, i realise. but the problem is i don't know what i am feeling--what i'm writing for anymore, or for whom. what's the point?

why can't i see?

will you call out?