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An original poem:

Minions marching to the pied piper's flute
Forming a moving mass of sheep in suits
Moving swiftly to the unheard beat of the compass pointing north 
Yet
You were the skin and the snake has shed you

Who do you listen to
when the ringing in your ears drowns out
positive affirmations bellowed by loved ones trapped on the sidelines
or shuffled along
while you drop to your knees in the glass box you built
a hammer in one hand and a compass in the other

your compass points north
but north is where you've already been
and hammers are for building
Bound by shackles attached to nothing
It points north

Longing to break free
but free is solitude, stuck with yourself
and only your heart to light the way when your compass points
north
none wait for you there

People drink the poison sliding down their throat
But clarity trickles through a leaky ceiling in the cathedral of heaven
Turn your face up and drink
But they look at the glass crunching under their bare and bleeding feet
It points north
None wait for you there.

A fire in the heart could warm those frigid and frozen bones
Let your radiator soul steam joy
You will prosper
When the lights go down and the crowd rolls on
You'll stand on the ground
While everyone searches
For the peace you have found.