What is it in the haze of things
and hearing nothing,
the breath of independence,
the separation of that word from freedom.
There's something that speaks in stillness
that tempers itself like slow raindrops
falling on an umbrella - 
a mesmerizing tempo,
immediate forgetting of what's in front of me.
I look inward
caught up in the cool rain dusk,
a searching hand lost in the soft glow,
my thoughts laid out like a checkerboard,
the grounds of delusional strategies.
I look outward, 
I step off the battlegrounds
taking only what is freely given,
taking myself through the murk,
further into where I want to be.