Extended adolescence,

Never getting your bones in order,

Filled a few gaps, dug plenty of holes

Embracing one’s own tragedy,

Felling as if nothing feels like “an event” anymore

Personal store untenable,

A wayward soul offering the direction of a ruptured compass

Distributing from a quarry of aimlessness,

Yet, always knowing the way home

This torpid individual never left the stead of the formative years