Letterbox

Broken lines of sodium light
Mark old Roman roads at night—
So if my words can’t comfort now,
Perhaps someday their echoes might
Guide the muse unto your door;
Take something less and make it more­—
For, every stone that’s raised anew,
Rests upon those laid before.

Meet me where the lines converge:
The shadow of the power surge.
It can’t be found on any map,
But directions may emerge—
From north to south and east to west,
They are not all as they suggest—
Freedom is a cunning trap,
And words are imprecise at best.