Confessions to My Architect

My spirit is forlorn, frightened, and impaired. You’re not hiding here in this hideous hell; no longer your eyes, are broken in a cataract cell, instead, you graze in the free fields, feeding on the flock’s frivolous phrases, now part of a buoyant herd, while I wallow in the ocean's pitiful past, gliding in my hurricane of pain. You wander merrily atop the mountain. I endeavor to revive my sunlit sanity. Yet my visions are still clouded by memories of your muddled myths. I can’t omit the seeds you sowed; they still thrive in the scintillating sky. I’m jealous of the verdant pastures you’ve found, now that your mind is at ease, no longer full of traffic themes. Instead, the only gridlock you hear is when the breeze blows a blizzard. I desired to be the one to settle your myriad nerves, for I had been your anchor while you swam in incognito tides. I wanted the glory of seeing your benevolence rise; in my movie, I cultivated a revival mission. In reality, I heard your sheep bleeps, when you articulated the need to be with others who live in the dark. A new family is formed one that omits labels and the only trepidation is sustenance. A Hebridean now glows auspicious with the luminous rays. I’m waving goodbye again, as usual, you turn the other way propelling me off the ridge of hope to pose with the expired weeds. Our reunion was for a season, and I must accept we were always meant to be estranged for a reason.