O pinions
Thinking you first wing of flight
The way
You fly by our minds
Yet instead of observing said clouds
We take hold
Preferring not silent praise but loud appraise
Not willing to be molded
We mold
Our own piece of clay
Fixing to fix
A so-called bind
Getting into the mix
Becoming all, or at all, disjointed
We miss
The greatest point
That binding, we are bound
To invisible restraints
That would equally free us the same
As we likewise release our restraint
O pinions
By night
We follow
The "light"
Of your psuedo stars that "guide"
Not straight
As in "the shortest distance between two points is..."
But all crooked, round about and to the side
We need only put some attention unto the matter
No supersleuth required
To conclude
Is it "truth"
That makes us tired?
Or our fright
We insistently uphold?
For it's one thing to behold
Yet we are oh so creatures of hot or cold
Of needing to be so much in charge or bold
That what's the fun?
If from judgment we withhold?
Where's the intensity or alarm?
In only lukewarm?
In doing as we're told?
Nay, we'd rather withhold
Our love
In place of having a place
To plant our two feet
Instead of spreading our wings
Insisting on the charge
After retreat
Whereas
Peace
Would have us take a retreat
To no particular place
With nothing really to change
No steps to forge or retrace
"Just" a going within
Then
When
We've let it all go
Not needing the win
Unheeding
Unconcerned, with loss
Our thoughts
Are no longer the albatross
Our cross, to bear
But beautiful birds
Over oceans, flying across
From here to there
And it's our attention on their
Form
That gives them all form
Instead of but being the mist
In our midst
And like this
Knowing we created and are creating this
We free self and "other"
From who's the smartest or tougher
But "just" to love her
And it, him and "them"
michael :)