sextant

You are here.

You are braille, read in falling touches and flailing rushes and I know I if I am cut in half we can read our futures in the rings, but my bite is worse then my bark and I cannot be a tree so you should be a stone dropped in still waters so we can count the ripples, but you’re not a stone, you are gypsy and vagabond.

You are here.

But never for long.