A man born without wings into the ashes of a forest
dead leaves and a valley of butterflies
Bleached to be ethicless
effortless as it is
To go without pursuit of question
A mind of matter
Wherein death lies one doesn't know
You're feeling all these expectancies
all these dependencies
Energy of yours, unhinged
The screens written
with the bastardisation of simple truths
Rhythmic as a creature
as spoken wavelength navigating
A wondering memory standing in front of the collectives
Transcendence above the impermanence
A palace on the grounds among us, but separated
dangerous minds of a phenomenon, in sequencing
Unceasing in divinity and untempered
by the indignation of his companions
Free to be, among the meadows of ourselves.