You seek another mind for clues, and find it:
you’re sure those other eyes peruse an inward sea
which hides the news you need to breed
dimensionally through to views which might
effuse you into light: provide that aid to greater
sight. The night grows late, and later, but you’ll wait
for something like a symbol in the ocean of his
consciousness to rise: a trident like Poseidon’s.
Then somehow, suddenly, you know:
there’s no such thing as guidance.
Knowing isn’t thought.Guidance can’t be sought.