I never saw that golden bird
far above, free and wild
all I saw was dirt
disorienting, inexpressive
holding onto everything and anything
that had lost its will to keep going

and some kept going, against the grain
against the shadows and the pages of their books
some shouted out not their thoughts
not their memories
not their knowledge
they screamed out in happy agony the world itself
as it revealed its character in their minds

on the other side of the wallowing horizon
lies a quiet storm
with gusts of wind that twist and spin
the confines of your home
unrelenting, the claws fall upon you
and your mind can but forget its theories
of how it all came to be
so nothing remains but an unshattered window
across which the colours whisper their dreams
of how it all seems
through a silent
truthful beam