Who arrived on goatwinds eating licorice.
Who peered out from under the tree
grown out from the top of their heads.

Who vacillated from insubstantiality
to being taken out of context
like a drawing propped carefully
alongside a statuette:

One is inanimate, ready to burst free
while the other has been released
in a sinewy, coiled escape.

Just waiting for the rain
that will help grow the tree
inside their brain to the wide open blue
to get lost in that terrain again.

At what cost does freedom become moot
when all dreams get covered in soot?

So shake the dust off the motes in your eye
and peering out from under your branch
follow the wind, my friend.

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