In Soft Moods

In soft moods, The ones hard to define, The rumbling starts, Those gnawing thoughts That fight to fly like birds Out of your ears and into the sky. Trapped they are all these years By you, guardian and host, of this wild root. You sip and sit and stare the evening long With ruddy eyes locked onto distant trees. Like a demented Roman guard awaiting a freedom That rattles and calls from within, pleading its owner to partake in their own sustenance As you deny, deliberate and dally instance after instance Your own raging rumble. So open the cage. Erupt with the heart's desires. You are the stuff that clouds are made of. Anytime is good, really. For as soon as you free your truest self, You will be the envy of your surroundings. Drifting, floating through the misty air.