Relentless Compasses

When we've reached our destination
and there's no further down that road to go
The compasses we look at thence?
Well they don't seem to know.
As our toes stretch out and wiggle
in the surf and foaming spume
The sea only retreats from us:
One cannot return to the womb.
So we trudge avoiding fences
eschewing all locked gates
Marching staunchly ever forward
though we know only agony awaits.
Oh if only we'd find some room
clean, untainted by hate
Perhaps we would then build our tomb:
Now that the notion of nothing sounds great!