The silent wind whispers a prayer,
so imagination moves me.
And in stride I creep away;
not wanting to serve the role of a thinker:
not silent, yet really, not quite there.

Not an option to fly freely away,
so in the world of questions and suppositions
the imagination, as itself, enduringly remains.

To speak of the source or the fool
settles as the final question,
for in either case they move as one;
not quite to absolution,
but to that comfort in knowing;
that lie, be it the truth.