to the softest clouds floating
the whitest greyest beings
like I
who look down in reverence

at those pillowed truths
a dream remembering
their beginnings
their everything

try just trying on
to say in the righteousness
of man's limited vocabulary

one thing that echoes
through the last rays
the first of suns
glistening

as much
as bright as blindingly
magnificent

though impossible
much like the draw
of the bridge

the pull of gravity
we don't understand
but strive

to put on paper
I am your
follower