transcend underneath cacophonous birdsong,
not in the flowers or trees,
feeling more at home in this less than urgent morning breeze.

feeling my fingers flutter, hammer to paper,
i penned my own nail.

didn't know until now quite how childhood tapered.
now finding no logic in subscription to faith in the future tense,
whether that happens to be through hopes or through dreams,
i don't seem to bring myself to expect anything.

contrasting prior maxims and beliefs,
i am preemptively eating every single word i speak.

in terms of uncertain worship the question is not whether to;
the cogs bear their teeth when queried via how, what, and why.

naught to seek, adorn in a figment of pseudo nautical chic,
my face betrays, it may misspeak.
i don't need a place to stay,
i don't have a place i seek.
coquetting with myself,
i am ever at my peak.