For the Crows of Conformity

Pebbles in a pond,
All go plop, one at a time.
Fall in silence to the bottom.

Your words are pebbles,
In high piles on the bottom,
Ripples come and gone.


Our shrines of stone,
Ideology, dead sentences,
Graveyards of dreams.


A golden eagle fly’s,
Glittering upon the new dawn,
Vision is her name.


Vision touches God,
Mocked by crows of conformity,
Trapped beneath the clouds.


With wings afire, falls,
As an holy angel to the ground,
Thought becoming form.


Smoke rises from the fiery pyre,
The white egg of inspiration,
Waits within the ashes.


Hid in our plain sight,
Awaiting a wanderer,
To free it from the flames.


A phoenix rises,
The spirit of inspiration,
Escaping from the page.