Illyria

Every journey's a panic of self lost and found.
Or just lost, faraway, sunk underground
with your life at your feet in overfed cases,
for an understood sign your blind finger traces
A to B across the map's coloured braille,
cuckold antenna to the love dart of the snail.

With no home you have much more to find
than the terminus that you had in mind,
mistaking arrivals for departures,
hatched as dispatched, desires for raptures,
horizons beyond where the world yearns
for what runs still in you and like an axis turns...

Though sometimes serendipitous you may alight
gentle as smile or kiss, or as day becomes night,
on the coast of a time forgot playground
where once you thought you had drowned,
and you can B and B, from A to Z
with everything you thought you'd missed 

                                                                                                   ahead.