I am standing at the edge
of the lake, spread
wide before me, as my
arms are;
poised for flight.
My compass is broken;
always points north.
I will never be lost.

I pitch my tent in the west,
but I will not sleep in it tonight.
I'll let the snow bury me,
and cover all the empty spaces.
The ice freezes quietly,
cracking and breaking the trees,
A raven crows in the south,
and I know its time to settle.

I will crit back.
I only crit back to good crits.
Last edited by inthegreyx at Dec 5, 2007,
if your compass always points north, how is it broken? Isn't it a compass' only job to point north?

Aside from that one complaint, I really like this poem. The title adds nicely too it, gives it a setting. Good sensory detail too, the sounds of the ice cracking, ravens crowing. It just seems to be a nice piece about nature and being at peace with it. Well done.
what comes up comes out
Yeah, most people wouldnt catch that I said it was broken, and always points north. It doesnt spin.
Last edited by inthegreyx at Dec 5, 2007,
Ah okay, I thought you meant it always pointed North. as in, it always did its job. But it always points north ON the compass, no matter which way the north on the compass is pointing. I see.

might want to say it better so its understood.

Obviously, its the poet's volition. I don't want you to harm the integrity of your piece
what comes up comes out