there is no path.

the cracked 

parchment map

has been burned 

for warmth.


an integrity 

roots down 

inside of me,

splitting the foundation

of reality,

and the closer i lean 

into vast creativity

the less i see 

of the seen.


what is a personal life?

this illusion 

of privacy,

a false secluded


when us is we

and my self-reliance 

saves a life

on the other side.


no place,

 no time,

and my evanescent tide

rustles and sighs

to this night.


© M.G. Iannucci 2017

Painting: Night Tree

11 thoughts on “Uncharted

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