The insect's soul shed of its carapace.
The hive's former inmates set free.
Power granted to the naked wolf.
The holders of the serpent's key.
Lost shepherds of the lonely trees.
Walkers with the birds and whales.
The tellers of all conceivable tales.
Sowers of the seeds of chance.
Hoping for an opportunity to dance.
One way ticket to a fantasy.
A neat trick to bypass reality with.
A debt exacted for extremes.
Millipedes freed into segments.
Centuries of centurions dreaming dreams.
The guardians of safely locked away remembrance.
The soft face of a spider.
The smooth skin of an oak.
The sharp teeth of a tree.
The eyes of a silver mine.
The fingers of quartz.
The oxygen mask of a fish.
Thus freed the soul of Animus
Mundus implodes into we.
It is not a heart, it is an ocean
It is not a nervous system, it is rain
It isn't inside us, we are inside it
You are the rock it uses for a pillow
It is not a boat, but the river itself
It doesn't flow until we start swimming
It is not the light; rather, it is our eyes
It is not your pupil, but a garden
They are not your irises they are everyone's.
It is not the rain you are.
It isn't a river until you jump in.
It's not a garden unless you become lost in it
whose flowers belong to no one but ourselves.
It is the stone held onto for warmth,
the one you pluck from your ribcage
and give away.
It is not the warmth you then
receive from another,
but the medium of exchange itself.
We are not the executors.
We are the spare change
it leaves for the homeless