Exhaust my possibilities,
So that my fears can run ragged,
Crossing the finish line,
With the prize in reach:
Stillness of soul
Chase me farther and faster,
Than you ever have before.
I am a runner by choice first;
by birth second.
You have surely caught my scent by now,
Like death on a summer wind.
Forget not the memory of my mark,
For my stillness is always a respite,
Never a funeral.
It is a breathless act,
Evading nature even by my nature,
Scaling mountaintops in spirte of tantromous cries,
From whining winds that seek to set my mind,
Similarly in front of their T.heological V.ision.
I must decline,
Much as a falcon has no desire to the oak’s roots.
I have no choice but to press on and away,
Circumnavigating the sphere who’s door is locked,
Even though you are well aware that no locks can keep at bay,
One who’s soul is Flux:
I am the soul-shifter,
Escaping the grasp of your gaze with every breath,
Even through your futile efforts to hold me close/down,
Smothered by your seductive smog,
Asphyxiation can not choke me yet,
Without my consent.
Post-Neology 