Compass
The direction is spinning like a demagnetized compass needle
Three-hundred and sixty measures of moments each with a choice
Deferred and accepted and driven all of these reconfigured decisions
Mapped out in pittances accepted at probabilities and contemplated
Actions derived out with pockets of wonder trapped in like bubbles
Of what if’s pressed under pressure mounting with each divergent option
That the next may be the last corner stepped forward and bent
With knuckles blushed with scrappy remnants folding over yet still attached
Water holes and bamboo shoot booby traps under ground mirages
Thirsty, parched and desperate and each foot to press and maneuver
Through the trip wires fosters fear in frosted beer mugs chugging
Both replenishment and intoxicated lunacy
Towards a flag on a hill waving like a howler monkey
Leaping vertically in rambunctious exaltation in station
And wait for my approach that I had located the base of operations
For all these foreign counterparts lingering about in practice maneuvers
On the off chance that I should happen by at three am on a Thursday
In October with no shoes, an owl tattoo, and a picture with a question
About the girl in the photographs where a bouts
As if the villagers could some how direct me to
Capture the flag
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