Free me to fly in cloudy heights, free me,
flesh… I confess to dissatisfaction,
to troubled thoughts, to bleeds and needs to see
above scabs on surface of skin’s creation.

Can it be? Is there eternity, here,
in me? How will I know when I am smothered
in carnal seas of obscurity? Fear
you, I do, elementals; old-mothered

by unseen unabsolutes. How does faith
in nothing apply to flying in clouds?
Everything is relative… Earth’s lathe
spins in the wake of death, and life. Now cowed,

I remain on brittle absence of dreams,
in human form, waiting to burst my seams.

Erin Elizabeth Kelly-Moen
© Copyright 7/15/04