A slight, pause, and then she alights upon the branch,
of a willow,
a Willow.
A recess in the rambling of her quickly, flitly
paced life.
A momentary reprieve from her star-guided quest for
truth.
She knows the journey, yet not the
destination.
Of woes and proclamation, and strength within
frustration.
She waits.
For the second-wind, the second-coming,
the stars to fall into the midnight sky so that
she may be guided to the...
truth.
The truth of what is and isn't and what will
come to be,
she lifts
her wings,
spread wide.
See her dance across the florid sky in sweeps
and dips.
Watch her fly, fly, fly,
far away, o'er the horizon.
But she comes back to me, yeah.
She always comes back to me.