My Breath, My Air
All days whip wildly along as if they have intention.
The hammer, nail and saw, tools of its master,
doing daily deliberate work, will foster grand expectations.
The master's craft proven over seasons of practice
brings a well learned lesson.
Head down, target on task, the constant refrains,
these will echo dreams.
But where is my breath, my air — hear my confession.
My masteries seem to be missing their mark,
the hammer and saw my limbs and muscles.
This honored craft, not as it appears,
rather cruel intentions, the witchcraft coming clear.
I am no master, but the slave of the dream.
As I view others and their quests,
they too have limbs and muscles put to the test.
Our fine craftsmanship, not for us at all,
but the very few from another team.
It is time to put this dream to bed to sleep forever.
I will lay down these tools and uncover my being.
A true carpenter's hand at work will always endeavor.
There is a higher calling and it is always freeing.
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