Sounds vibrate from far, far human voices
and distant visions poke through foggy glasses,
or felt in a belly by personal choices
- what to quaff ?- lemonade or lies or beer,
all nascent and frothy. As time passes,
less and less I taste and smell whatever’s near.
But before I choose to swallow
distant sound, I also can prefer to speak:
creating a truth or lie that others maybe follow
as a will o’ the wisp - a single word
fluting away to bleak,
gigantic air – a feathery flight, or firebird.