He walks, in subtle catastrophes
through an evergreen melancholy.
persistent as the wind
his mind resides upon a change,
adventure. destination
setting sail or, harbor pain.

he speaks, in the unconscious rhythms
that escape from his chaotic, symphonic, conscious.
his perspective aches with window panes
he states in humble solace:
"i'm left to face the rain again
I'm right to turn away
I'm up to turn around
i'm down to turn it up and sway
I've never really traveled
past the gravel at my feet
but with all these sticks and stones
i'll build myself flying machines."