What could be softer than wood?
Reaching beyond rafters may give splinters
In the weak forearm of flesh
Or in the mind where it suffers
The most important glands
What could be more beautiful than blood?
Existence confined within soft fleshy veins
Human, a real human, caged, the blood drips
And returns to earth, wets the soil
Patience never around as it wrestles with time
What words could be unique?
Are the phrases uttered by revolutions
Curtailed by the sun or by man?
Raising skies, falling doctrines
Philosophy to drive to apathy and aporia
And leave axiom at the wayside
What if sloth were a virtue?
Would the lands be green and inviting
Watching for you to step in its sand?
Studies rely on reading and remembering
Before long, too late
To create
Just a glimpse inward
Of what it really means
To be flying
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