Our hearts skip a beat
when fed with the delusion
that we have time in this world
to possess.  
Like a child
we think we own the burning flame
of the candle
standing with no attention
to arrest.  
We are content to be lured in every season
And still yet,
the skies of ourselves
never rests.

We keep our eyes closed,
looking for some other way
to find
everything there is.
Irrespective
of how the sun holds our hands.  
Still,  gently we leave in place
an ache
that prepares us
for the broken windows in our lives
to be like feathers  
with a present
of living free
without demands.