(no title)

born into direction, placed onto paths
where is my course? i am asked
but the question builds stairs into circles
with the power of fear:
what is my direction?

same in their difference
the trees bustle, rustle in the wind
and birds nest gracefully, rest peacefully;
all is one,
but here the human comes

silent, his shadow
never to be seen, footprints
fall into the same mold, path(etically)
a little further worn, out
racing his competitors on separate trails, leading
nowhere

the paths many before so blindly walked
and promptly others follow faster,
their trees, a concrete jungle; their minds, nothing
but a parasitic hollow,
seating a ventriloquist, a master

run away from the path and its disaster,
i sail with the wind
i grow in the trees
capturing the mountain breeze,
watching the senseless puppets wander,

and they ask me, what is my direction?