This life aback,

I began,

to fish the ocean,

for trout or sea bass,

for a map of island territories,

for a direction unseen by common eyes,

I cannot explain,

discontent led me here,

on a journey,

met in challenge,

forged by fire,

defined through trial,

I make my way,

snow-covered streets,

a plow lone,

doing its diligence,

as the motor turns,

and yellow-orange beacon blinks,

its sonic is singular,

while winds wisp,

and chills chatter teeth,

I postulate,

this purpose driven livelihood,

a soul’s compass,

which denies a destination,

and only marks the journey.


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