If you're the author of the fables,

Prophetic Aesop,

I'm hoping you've noticed the uneven scales;

Acknowledging the altitude that steeply pulls your words

(Obeying gravitational laws, but forsaking your own),

And forcibly torments me as it keeps me negligible.

As the shadow of your tower casts over my brass bronze platform,

I desperately yearn for the nostalgia of another time…

A time where the looming shade of your elevation didn’t infect me with crisp zephyr,

& the circulation of the elements didn’t leave me with an internal mirror to the purgatory around me;

A moment where, at an arm’s reach, your breath and my own had no differences

as they dispersed and cohered and eventually shared the same elements...

But the inception of a dream cannot be conceived if the firmament has never been regarded.

In other words, such a time never existed and left no result of blissful peace;

No culminating relaxation or reassurance has ever swam in warm rivers --

the warm, deep blue rivers in my veins.

Am I stuck, soul shaken, cold and desirous of exaltation, subjugated and burdened with this placement?

Or could you just reach out to me, simultaneously raising my place in this void

and the void in my spirits

And embrace me with parity dressed in the love that I know exists?