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