This world of concrete—viewed through many
of the same repeating windows—
seems lost; forlorn.
Whilst people
personify air through dreams of tired architectures;
blurring mortality and men.
It just seems to be the nature of things.
During it all it is, that I walk,
wings tucked;
quenching the thirst for safe, solid shapes.
Alone, we feed the bidding of our willing.
To Depart
from the ground, then
to fall…
It just seems to be the nature of things.
Then at once: open up, run;
.Flight
Seeing, touching, breathing – organic.
To be in err, without bindings:
betwixt soft mist – mews skylark beyond
caged measures of their name.
As morning remains the dusk of night:
birds call; their sounds, the differ
while moons measure in sweet similitudes.
.Fragmented light
Then, to Depart, aptly and anew—
tastes of life
in the knolls of dead skin.
Then in return: open winged.
.Beautiful
It just seems to be the nature of things.
Chris McInnes
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-nature-of-things-3/
