To Be a Compass Rose

I had followed the compass
In the wrong direction.
When it stopped and asked me
For my destination,
I knew I had led
Instead of followed
And I was now lost
In the ideals constructed
By pain and distrust.

There were questions
That the compass refused to answer
Times in space that dictated
Only memory,
Allowing me the needle
But refusing me the map needed to direct it.

My north spun out,
Directing me only to that moment in bed
When dark had chased away the light
And a voice not belonging in the doorway
Spoke.

My east crept by,
Ushering only whispered battles
That hid behind walls far too thin,
Arguments that impregnated the corners
With distention.

My south, dodged all advances
Painting the landscapes with my mother’s tears,
Instilled the air with strength I should have never needed
Leaving me weak
And thirsty.

Surely, I thought my west would have led me home,
But it brought me to heartache
Over and over again,
Sitting me down in the kitchen,
Beneath an apathetic eye
That should have been loving,
And requested me to calm and comfort
One who was supposed to have held me.

My compass promised nothing
But shadows.
Drift wood tossed at the mercy of the waves,
Only the shore could deposit what was adrift
But the needle refused guidance.
I was give vision from the glass lens
Wasted and etched
By my searching.

How do I realign?
What polarity of thought,
Of memory,
Of conscious requiems
Will allow my feet to follow?
Am I the compass?
Left wandering in magnetic pasts
So that north can no longer shine?

If I am direction,
What comfort have I allowed my needle to change?
Tears?
Blood?
Agony distilled through the aging of grief?
Are my cardinal points decided
By Before
By Then?
What of Now?
What of Future?
What of Soon?

If my name is Compass Rose
How shall I follow my next adventure?