It is Windy Outside the City
On nights like these,
I think what is it to be free?
An abnormal response,
or a predetermined destiny?
I’ve been to the skirts of our lands of time,
and I’ve retraced many moments with the pupil of my eye.
So, I aim, now, to be above that—
[which is below myself too]
To reflect who one is without a single clue.
Who would be echoing a nation of sprouts,
but a hopeless minion made up to feel doubts,
I hear the buzzes as they talk to we,
Me is of one,
and you, I know, can see.
You’ve been here for hours,
days at a time—
You’ve seen past the production,
of the false remarked twine.
The soul forms a spool of the fool I once knew,
Of the angel of death,
who wore black,
and saw blue—
but falling is floating,
if you remember kairological time,
if you recall the steadfast moments of trust,
when yourself knew it was inside your mind.
—to the empaths I seek a redemption of sorts,
to help one another create foundation & not sport.
For I can hear you plotting,
which is me to myself,
to purposely lean in,
and thrive to develop.
The talkers are talking,
& the walkers are true,
to be waking up in life,
to see designs right through.