true north

there are words we hurl
against the fabric
of coal-
black night,
words that scaffold
our crumbling sensibilities
and designed to force
some equilibrium once more
into antiquated senses
of self
like limbs broken
or as a sailor too long at sea
walks drunkenly
from dock to shore
until his (or her) balance
gets restored.
and yet those oft-repeated
phrases too pale
and worn
do little to warm
a soul fed solely
on borrowed hand-me-down
notions and choked
full of memories
better off
let go.