The compass needle swings, restless,
Searching for the true north,
Between bias, a cage of certainties,
And beauty, a freedom uncontained.
What truth lies in the arc?
The pull of roots, the lure of wings,
Or the quiet hum of the in-between,
Comforted. numb to reality’s weight?
The mirror hangs at the extremities,
Leaving the bloated middle
A void, directionless—
Brimming with contradictions, fading decency.
The extremes shout mirroring each other:
Right is wrong, wrong is right,
Certainty holds its grip,
A prison of our own making.
Yet beauty whispers through the cracks,
A freedom untethered,
Hosting dreams of flight and light,
Where no cage can reach.
The compass trembles,
Drawn to its promise:
The vast horizon, the uncluttered sky—
The allure of what might be.
Ring of Fire 
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