Glossolalia

Foreign phrases fall from my lips
as if a stranger from a strange land
had taken up residence in my vocal chords.
I long to shout,
"DON'T SPEAK FOR ME,
BEING FROM LANDS UNKNOWN."
Set your tracking beam of love
and dazzling light
upon my meager form.
Carry me to undiscovered destinations
that have not yet known the hand of a cartographer.
O, Sweet Renderer of Territories
and Bodies of Water, chart the route
for my fragile, angst-encased
soul to travel.
Show me the way!
Chart my path with a compass of truth.
Words elude me,
hiding like dust-bunnies under unmoved furniture.
My delapidated futon is seldom still,
yet no configurement allows
my bones to comfortably rest.