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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required The Cartographer of Maybe © Ashok Jahagirdar The map I was given is fading now, Its borders, drawn in another’s hand, Are bleeding at the edges. The roads, so straight and promised, End abruptly at a cliff Overlooking a sea of questions. The legend’s key—a child’s sure script Of “always,” “never,” “wrong,” and “right”— Dissolves like mist in morning air, A topology of borrowed light. A Dizzying Freedom I am drawing my own coastlines, Tracing the capes and inlets of my becoming. The compass spins, a dizzying freedom, And north is wherever I plant my feet, A little lost, a little wild, Charting the wilderness of maybe. The Shedding This new parchment is my own skin, Stretched taut across the ribs of hope, The ink, a blend of scar and dream. I sketch a bay of Solitude, Where tides of thought can ebb and flow; I dare to mark a mountain, Failure, Its height now something I must know. The Equinox Let the old chart curl and blacken, The map I was given is fading now, Its borders, drawn in another’s hand, Are bleeding at the edges. The roads, so straight and promised, End abruptly at a cliff Overlooking a sea of questions. I am drawing my own coastlines, Tracing the capes and inlets of my becoming. The compass spins, a dizzying freedom, And north is wherever I plant my feet, A little lost, a little wild, Charting the wilderness of maybe.
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