There is an involuntary act in being.
As a river flows along the contours of land,
in and out,
and existence Is.
Where does that leave the meaning
of where I stand?
Rain will fall hard one day,
and I hope I find shelter.
For I feel these clouds know not what they do.
They simply are,
as I am,
following the churning of atmosphere.
The fickle winds,
blind and weightless,
kiss timelessness and a subtle surrender —
met with god-like strength —
peel the sky.
I am not these clouds,
and I am glad,
so my lungs, and porous skin
soak in the wet tears of heaven.
I become a lake,
all rivers flow to me —
and from me —
standing firmly in place
holding back the weight of inception.
My own being,
and all being,
comes from this place where I stand drowning.
Breath is no longer a gift
given so freely,
and now I envy the wondering clouds,
free in their suspended world,
oblivious to the space they occupy.
Existing subject to the whims of an invisible force.