Feinted

He spills his life onto a scrap of paper

That escapes his grasp in the wind.

Dashing away like a silent caper , Whispering to those who have sinned.

"I know where your path lies,

to the north and to the west,

I know where your path dies,

Just beyond horizon's crest."

The shard of parchment flies,

Aligned in a temporal storm.

Lightning feigning its demise,

Rain continuing to swarm.

But the slit of paper floats continuously,

Driven by some maddening design.

Rocking and kicking tumultuously

Causing us to look for a sign.

A sign so benign,

A snot-nosed punk could grasp it.

As if it followed the narrowest line,

As the man who could simply sit.

A man who gazed at the wind,

A paperless quill in his hand,

Before his pad had been skinned,

Its whispers echoed to the sands.

But just as quickly

As the forces that be,

Decide who will see,

A crumpled up scrap, of paper you see,

Lying before you

And me.