Manacled to a mediocre mind,
my being longs for release
to dance with angels on paperclips,
and drink warm sunlight in sips.
Chained to a featureless form,
my being longs for oblivion
to pray with the birds and the bees,
and fly with the clouds and the trees.
Fastened to a dying animal,
my being yearns for its ecstasy
to submerge in the annals of history,
and drown in its wonderous mystery.