All signs point east. East opens to opportunities: few limitations. The sunrise will always dress in light shades of peace and welcoming. The song of the young mockingbird will always be heard. Hold out your arms to me, oh east. My heart longs for your direction without judgement, failure, consequence, or regret. May east be my heart's end destination, but my soul yearns for west. Sunsets, end of rainbows and potential; look west with a sigh. Was this direction painted a facade to lure my conscience? Am I to always yearn for west? Shackles are found a calm invitation to the trying days ahead. Manipulation lies prostrate to my feet like a beautiful doormat, yet I am the one trampled upon. Few have gone west. No one has sought west and found serenity. No one has called westward and been answered satisfaction, so why is it I want this misadventure?
My infatuation for this direction has manifested short of a decade. Small gestures and faint whispers fill my mind with hope and promise of a good life west, but the truth has never favored my sway. So which way will my hand reach when my soul is east yet my heart is west? My eyes are torn, but as luck would perch on my sunken shoulders, I still have two: One for east and one for west. So until the day the south seas wash me yonder or the north winds carry me away, the sun will still set in the west and rise in the east. With the sun I must rise.
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