transitory always

You struggle slowly, beat your wings, but
They say you’re flying nowhere. Why
Was the little bird so peaceful coming
From the nowhere sky? Crossing, on its ways,
A church’s white and tile steeple?

Sky is one, and all the same
Transitory always running is.

Struggling wings tied to the back by nothing but a mind,
A mind taken to the slaps incising 'you deserve it,' that you doesn’t.

Struggle slowly and struggle till, even after you fall,
 You'll glide to peacer winds, winds
Mere voices, hands, and judgments, however brute
 Could never breach
No matter how much they think
they don’t (deserve)
because
The matter of their thoughts is nothing
to that of your heart. And hope is
Transitory but itself always,
Though more or less never nONE without more.
Whether it is felt, and weather it
Beats the lightest shadow in your heart.

So you like your colors to hold hands
With the exacting paints of different seasons.
Your eyes are some that will never fit,
But somehow there too there's a sense that
The colors don't mingle, but are borne from within
The centres of each other, not only at the interim frays.

The sky is the dead, but it's open to the living
It sings so as to carry those who stay
and fly on Heaven's breaths. Who took the slaps?
The calls to fly lower lower

Until the head touched the ground. You couldn't, Yet the winds, winds
Winds that didn't responded to you. They could never be breached, but they Breached through you.

Birth of the world and of you carrying
Home and over, around and on,         winds and winds
Your wind, though you don't know,
The matter of the soul that, no matter what, stays

And sticks only to peacer winds, if you learn to let it,
To which only you belong, without needing to hold or having
To feel like you must manage a current you can't trust.
Your mind doesn't have to restrict itself
To be worthy of happiness. It can be just the way it is
And you are who you are. A bit of both is a wonder dipped
For the soaring word of God.