The map you hold is torn and old,
With stories left but halfway told.
The ink has faded on the line,
Between the human and divine.
You look for signs in shifting sand,
For landmarks in a foreign land.
But eyes can trick and sights can lie,
Beneath an unfamiliar sky.
So close your eyes and settle deep,
Where quiet, ancient secrets sleep.
For in the center of your chest,
A steady needle finds its rest.
It does not point to where you’ve been,
Or to the things that you have seen.
It points to truth, it points to home,
No matter where you choose to roam.
Author’s Note
We spend so much of our lives looking for external validation or a “map” that tells us exactly where to go. We look to others, to tradition, or to the “rules” of success. But maps are often outdated the moment they are printed. This poem is about trusting that internal “north” — that quiet, intuitive voice that knows the way even when the landscape around us changes. If you stop trying to see the destination and start feeling the direction, you’ll find you were never really lost.
