TRUE NORTH
She said I’d see the Northern Lights,
those brilliant bands of
technicolor dream crisscrossing
the Northern sky—
where pagan Northmen saw Odin
and pious monks swore they
saw the cross.
Here, on the precipice of knowing,
all I see are charged particles
playing at God and desperate humans
all too ready to believe.
My mother told me to always trust my gut
and here, at the end of it all,
I know what I know:
North is but a matter
of perspective, and True North
is the inward path to nowhere,
the road winding round the
precipice of dreams,
meaningless until we give it meaning,
that semi-enlightened sense fools call
Belief.