The Sun became a quill in a sky blue scroll.
One foot in the tangible as worlds unfold.
Birds and insects take flight to declare
there is purpose in the solitude that heralds our despair.

As a shipwrecked sparrow hollers from a tree -
"I am only just a body! What could be inside of me?!"

But then his unseen counselor that has a thousand voices reveals itself as a shelter in the storms of past choices.

The timeless wearing the fleshy mask of the timebound.
A gargoyle delighted in the facade.

No one thinks enough of fantasy to see the clues so well-placed.
--
And where we used to soar with purpose,
now we simply stand in place.
--
Demonstrating mortality, see it written on the face
of collective consciousness; is it stubborn to embrace?

Presently I'm chasing presence.
With both legs tied with guilty ropes.
Through the suffering, the shadow of our true selves revolts.

I am not I.
Or at least not as I.
Would think it.