Swimming on icy feathers which burn my stockinged feet and naked arms,
my mind plunges below, far, deep, shallow then deep again.
These feathers brush my thoughts with subtle stabs of guilt and doubt
until I float, breathless, breathing in the harsh perceptions which bombard
in crashing waves of thorny harassment.
What is this thing, this feeling of emptiness,
of fullness half-empty, of unsettled safety?
From where did it arrive, this dull and persistent eruption,
which begs oblivion and offers no guidance?
Inside I know, but know not how.
Within I see, but cannot grasp it.
Stubborn, blue, joyous freedom that yearns for a speck of myself in another.
A longing so reckless that I project that which is not to be,
infer that which cannot have possibly been said in such a brief moment.
Too soon, it cannot be.
Too true, it may not be possible.
This quest for grounding is normal, the voice intones.
Red flags abound, though I am blinded by their blatantcy.
Over seas of rocky opportunities I fly,
I flutter,
to each flickering flame that beckons with implication,
like a blind monarch searching feverishly for blue,
but finding only cyan, green or even red in its stead.

Where do I find them, these off-colors that do not match me?
How do their charms catch me, and fool me and break me once more?
Blue seems obvious enough - blue is blue, red is red.
But here, in this narrow chasm in-between,
red is black and short is heavy.
Soft circles dart toward me in a rush of exaltation,
only to crash into glowing rivers before acceptance.
Why? How? Raging rock and stumbling sparrow
do not meet except in a crash of desperation.
If only the sparrow could perch atop that rock just once.
They may agree and a nest could be built there.
But the wind pushes me along and out again,
over the flickering lights in search of her.
Souls may pine for solace but this fickle wind
offers only transient and undecipherable pathways.