Surrounded by a million tones, not woven by me
And I cannot decipher one from another
But there is a symphony of perfection to be drank all at once
And I am drunk
Drunk on the shades of spring
Yet still I chatter a thousand woes, haunting the evening waves
Am I a lunatic?
For it feels the moon draws all that dwells involuntary
Would I choose this crazy distinction?
I’d rather root beneath the worms and grow without this trouble
Where all I would want is to slowly dance to where I rest most comfortably
Or to climb the walls, not afraid of position
Is this my prison, believing I am not such a way?
That fate is my own doing
I often pray my thoughts to be swiftly caught by an eagles claw, then released far from land
Filtered by the salt and dispersed upon the seabed, food for the fishes
Ideals I’ve collected, are they to sculpt me? Like hands without permission roaming my naked skin
And may I throw that to the birds also
If there is such a way
Am I to be?