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.
.