There are maps of the world
decoupaged onto the skin of my soul.
Lines follow voyages made,
once upon a time.
Old passports stamped in airports,
All the longings folded neatly
and arranged in every suitcase
you own, will not wear out on these roads.
Traverse the terrain internal
before you pack your bags.
Cross timelines of memory,
jet lag of large expanses covered.
Surrender into the light of kind perusal.
Each memory dug up as tarnished remainders
is willingly given into the hands of
gracious second chances.
There is a mapmaker for pilgrims
who long to travel.