I know where the four winds blow. I raise my sail to catch the way I want to go. “Slow,” I says to myself, “go slow,” but my soul wants to fly, I’m not quite sure why — probably because time rushes so.
And if I sit here too long, will I turn to stone? Will I die right here, stock still and all alone? Have I always been a child, or have I grown? The day is creeping past, and I feel out of gas. Have I seen all that this day might have shown?
It feels dumb to sit here, grasping for a rhyme. It’s not as if I do this all the time, and wasting precious moments seems a crime. Yet it’s more than I’ve attempted before, so maybe this is part of the design.
And so I mumble further down the page, hoping now I finally break out of the cage in search of cures for everybody’s rage. I know it’s probably futile, the world is far too brutal, but dreams might usher in a peaceful age.
