A refugee you could be
in the silence of anonymity.
There is nothing wrong
you could tell yourself.
Almost like a personal myth
Go on and opiate your way
and cover some ground.
But look back you should.
There are rivers of fault lines.
Dark forests growing on their banks
and you, wandering like fireflies.
Searching for adequate darkness
where that spark of light you hold
might suddenly be relevant.
The purposelessness of the quest
would swell the coffers of your doubting.
That search needs a name
you might regret.
A home it can go to
in the clamor of wilderness.