Toward what star or pole does my nature incline?
Is there within, or without, or flung beyond the horizon
some invisible Presence toward which I wander–unled, unheeding, unknown?
What magnetism sways my needle, what force persuades my feet this way or that, what knowledge without articulation guides my soul?
Some constant, surely, some light darkness does not dim..
Yet oft my needle spins, possesed by some lesser power, some subtle mini-magnet convincing South North, just for a day.
Following, I set off, heading toward a destiny unsought and dark, pale and lifeless.
If South is North my endurance is worthless, I trek toward nothing.
Yet South is never North, me compass notwithstanding.
I cannot change the ageless planes which orient forces forever.
Beneath more visible swayers are powers too deep for feeble understanding.
One such dwells deeply within the fabric woven through us all and therein my compass find knowledge and this sure:
It is the bright and morning star.