Soul farmer

I, the explosion
I, the scattering dwarves in blue police cloaks
I, the burning car
I, the dreamer and soul farmer

look at the billion blades of grass
each jutting up from the earth
Each a tiny reason
each a tiny clue

The grass, tickets to existence
When will it be mowed?
I, the question
A creature of words

You, the reader
the drinker
to this flavor of unprovable ramification
To this collage insight

I, the cradler of babble's wheat
The opener of strange fish
A desire to imply much more
For words themselves are circumscribed for I mean to reach higher

I, the craving to exist
to express
and to release
To crush the curse and devour the blessing

The wings of the fledgling as it falls from it's mountainside nest