The sounds of life escape my control
and fly away each time I breathe.
My words are fallen leaves
that my voice then blows to liberty.
This ineffable quality of sound--
that it would resist fixation--
is but the stuff of life though it gives frustration.
My thoughts have now become clouds of meaning
whose residual essence has become the firmament
that my leaves aspire to as I respire.
In this aerial dance, lines have formed a flag
and my stream of thoughts has taken up with the wind