• Vol. 07
  • Chapter 06


I feel my sole stick on this floor,
its history, mistakes and flaws,
ghost markers left, those trod before.

Bolder white line and coloured shapes,
belie the spills, slow fading past –
but why rely because it's brash?

I park on yellow broken line,
not here, unrecognised terrain,
an aerial of mixed up mind.

Which sprite at work, what tempest rules –
and who can prosper on this world,
where shapes are strange, logic unfurled?

Is this a playground, safety first,
near trees unclimbed, adventure lopped,
as Sycorax, bewitched and stilled?

Or is this all intentional,
spirits rampant, incongruent,
rank parade ground to be displaced?

This atlas clear, but key removed,
no context or perspective shown;
does partial sight often mislead?