A Compass with a Mind of its Own

Science dictates it displace itself, non-renitent
To that infinite field, pervasive and eternal
Aligning, its only ability, suspended in a sea of tightly strung water molecules
Bound meticulously to provide no obstacle nor aid to its movement
Yet see how that compass fails all the while to ground where it may
Turn once, return, revolve, and decelerate until it finds it niche
The field contorts and you twist uncontrollably once again
Helplessly to locate where that niche has so cunningly triangulated itself now
But you do not stutter or shy away from the endeavor
Regardless of the direction

Though my fatigue is compounding and the pressure is boundless
Aligning, my only choice, rendering useless the myth of free will
My brain it fails to land where it should, the track is laid and the path is marked by those before me
But spin once around it does, returns, revolves, and introspects
With nothing but the meaningless adages of the ages to wade through
Suspension, spinning, stopping, spinning, hanging…
Helplessly, even with a mind of my own,
I might attempt to seek that bliss where it has so maliciously settled itself now
I cannot stutter or shy away, but instead
I follow a direction
Not necessarily, the direction,
But one