Existential Treasure
A poem about the layout of life

If life is like a treasure map, then boy am I lost. Why am I even searching? For how long and at what cost? A page that’s now decaying. The edges torn, ripped and frayed. Every inch a mark of bleeding ink; the choices that I’ve made.
A map with no direction. Entire corners now cut out. In a language you do not know nor have ever been taught about. Plus it’s 2am now. The deepest depths of the night. How are you meant to read a map with no access to a light?
If life is like a treasure map, where X marks the spot? Can’t I just avoid it? Leave my gold there to rot? Because I refuse to wander so blindly into the dark. Hunting for this unknown thing, as it sits there on its mark.
You see, life — it seems — is just a fortune. In a beige cookie it is rolled up inside. But it’s blank. It’s empty. A canvas, unwritten. What appears on it is for us to decide.






