You are not the grey anvil of your library
burdened as it is with thick tomes of memory,
nor are you the buttery words of your pale skin,
a layer once forced out in salty, inky angers.
You are not the warm push of the high ribald sun,
or the dark morning fret of unknowing,
that seeks direction from half-remembered deities,
left lingering in a cold dawn.
You are the construct of a Kite,
patchwork angles in primal colour,
gathering miniature masses of time
storing your wants in trinity rods,
by the cast of gravity,
but for a fleeting second of flight.