tonight

[thrice11]

he's flying west for the winter though the compass directs south
he just won't heed the persistent calls of his disjoined mouth
the sun is at his back, the wind is thin and brisk
a path unknown before him, on which his eyes are fixed

insistent to gain absence from whos and whats and wheres
but steadily more importantly, escape was from the whens
if one could jump from the general consciousness
to a conscious less conformed, he thought,
that may just be exactly why we're for.