North Is Still North

Inside a shoebox, thick with dust,

a stack of letters, turning rust,

beneath them, dull, a brassy shell,

a compass that I knew too well.

No gleam was left, the glass was blurred,

a silent promise, no true word.

But still, the needle, thin and keen,

pointed to North, a faded scene.

It showed a way I'd never take,

a choice I’d made for goodness sake.

Just heavy in my open palm,

a broken, small, and bitter psalm.