In that empire, the Cartographers Guilds
struck a Map of the Empire
whose size was that of the Empire,
coinciding point for point with it

The map unfolds e n d l e s s l y
a paper realm as vast
as the world it claims to represent

You trace phantom routes
with trembling fingers
hoping for revelation

But even perfection is imperfect
The 1:1 scale obscures
as much as it reveals

Cities shift like mirages
rivers flow backward
mountains
c
r
u
m
b
l
e
to
s a n d

North becomes a concept
fluid as mercury
slipping through your grasp

E a s t W e s t
c o l l i d e
a temporal car crash
of “what was” and “might be”

The legend offers no key
only riddles in fading ink:
“Here be dragons ,” it whispers

But even monsters would be
a comfort in this
cartographer’s nightmare

You long for dragons now
for something solid to fear
something to navigate around

Instead the blankness spreads
a cartographic cancer
eating away at certainty

In the Deserts of the West, still today
there are Tattered Ruins
of that Map

You wander these ruins
searching for fragments of meaning
in the tatters of representation

The map fights back
paper cuts slicing deep—
your blood the only real landmark now

“I am here,” you say
pointing to a spot that vanishes
the moment you touch it

The map laughs a rustle of paper
mocking your need for placement
in a world too vast to be contained

A memory surfaces:
Your father’s weathered atlas
Tracing routes on rainy Sundays
The world seemed so orderly then

But now—

Successive Generations with less homage
to the Map, saw its vast bulk as Useless
and delivered it up to the Inclemencies
of Sun and Winters

PANIC RISES

The familiar contours dissolve Reality unravels with the map

In frustration you ball it up
this useless guide
this liar’s tool

But as it crumples you realize—
The creases and tears
the folds and stains
the very destruction of the map
has become the only true reflection
of your journey

You smooth it out once more
this record of attempts
each failure a step
on a path that exists
only in the walking

The map burns away to ash
carried off by winds
that smell of elsewhere

You stand in the unmarked territory
of your own bewilderness
No guide no compass no star to follow

Just the raw truth of lostness
and the realization that every step
draws a new map— ephemeral, but honest

In the Disciplines of Geography no History of Cartography
retains mention of that Useless Map
except as reminder of Extravagance and Folly

This is the truest navigation—
to walk without knowing
to be the map that isn’t there