Direction

Always more than my blurry eyes can see,
Always one more number than I can count,
Always a line stretching farther in the east,

Like spokes of a wheel,
Spinning outward and onward forever.

A sound like a ghost I can barely trace through the wind,
An angel's grace for which I desperately look upward.
A breath, but I don't know the sound.

Deserted, the door opens, a path from the ground.
The door opens. The door opens.
I guess I'll have to make do.