So few are not lost in their reality,
As I take a breath and reflect,
On the Bars that make up my own,
so easy to observe one make their own,
Problems from belief, habit, albatross,
For I think I’m close to land,
But still quite far,
At what stage did all compasses,
Become spinning needles,
Needless of direction,
On the magnetic pull of my reality,
For loss.
To gain would be to leave,
Of unwelcome even in my own rhyme,
Just another dial of imperfect time.

By Ryan Anthony Gibson

* Unable to take or give direction,
Accept within my own flawed advice.

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