At night I search for solid ground
midst dreams in restless sleep
on troubled seas, an occluded sky
hides the stars, leaving me unsure
to the limits of my compass
a fictive north, unsteady wheel
twisted tiller, wondering where
this mortal journey came undone?
The first lie birthing an interminable
matrix of illusions, opposite directions
a maze of un-marked paths
in that medieval wood, yet here again
on white capped waters, my atonement
at the bottom of these depths
or high on Areopagus Hill discussed
in Tribunal chambers. Had I not lived
this night, I could not have written
these lines, in my sin is my salvation.
c) Jan G.Otterstrom F.
February 20, 2010