The birds that own
the morning sing
a song of silence
in twilight greys
and misty morning
blues. Their songs fall
on the deaf ears of
the dead and the fallen.

I am awake.

And yet I live a dream.
I exist among slumbering
simpletons. Gentle giants
of human endeavor. They
are kind, and exciting
but they cannot see the
wold in the swirling mists
of birth and death, of finite
and infinite as I do. Their
eyes are blind to my
sun and their ears are
deaf to the song of the
birds that own the morning.

We walk the same
roads, tread the same
paths, yet our steps are
not in line. Somewhere
our vision separates, our
horizons do not match.
There is not a light
in their souls that sparkles
in their eyes, there is not
the magic in their actions
that will move the world
to tears. They are not empty,
but they will never be full.

They are those that will
find contentedness amongst
the flock, while we will
strive ever on, searching
for perfection and
dancing to the song of
the birds that own the
morning.

AcB 6/8/99