Another Lost Soul
I don’t want another lost soul,
don’t need another arse
to wholly screw me
over or above
or under
the rug or
any promise
of nebulous love.
I will not be another lost soul.
I have a compass and
a map. And packs of
chocolate biscuits
to sustain
and tempt.
I hold my own
and maybe
his.
He is not another lost soul,
though he took a circuitous route,
the long way round. No matter.
He got a bit confused.
His shoes are a little
careworn. His feet
are a little sore.
But he knows
he is able
for more.
For me.
For time.
