His spirit gleams like a candlelight
in the window as the typhoon howls.
He nurses it like a babe till it blazes wild
enough to put the fires of hell to shame.
He shoots his arrows with his eyes closed
and let them land like geo-pins
on his window seat itinerary—each stop
he writes poems about.
Can no longer be contained,
confinement is his nemesis.
No island to call his home,
for he is a constant traveler
sailing in solitude.
No compasses. No maps.
Just a constellation of stars.
