The Compass of The Soul

The road hums beneath me,
an ancient melody strung from gravel to sky.
It whispers: Go. It murmurs: Leave.
The asphalt, a black vein pulsing
with the blood of restless wanderers.

Mountains rise like prophets,
their stone faces carved by the wisdom of wind.
Rivers braid the earth into verses,
each bend a stanza, each current a song.
I follow, drunk on the rhythm of their call.

The stars are my cartographers.
They etch maps onto my bones,
sketch routes that only the heart can read—
to cliffs where the horizon splits open,
spilling its secrets
into the eager mouths of dreamers.

I am not made for stillness,
for walls that cage the sky,
for clocks that tick away the wild hours.
My spirit is stitched to the wings of sparrows,
to the howl of wolves, to the ache of tides
that kiss the shore and pull away again.

Adventure is not a choice;
it is the marrow of existence,
the human need to touch the untouched,
to speak the language of the untamed.

Let the rain baptize my skin,
the sun burn its hieroglyphs into my face.
Let my feet blister from the paths
that have never known a name.
I will not flinch.

For it is there,
in the wilderness, in the uncertainty—
where the soul unpacks its compass,
and every direction whispers: Home.