Learning to Be

                                 To the Burning Sun longing to echo the Nocturnal moon.

                                 The white ghost gazer of this train wrecked world
                     
                    that is always moving,
                                                       always fleeting,
                                                                               always fading,
                                                                                                   always never fully returning,

Because the Edict was written by God.

Because I do not know what the Edict said about my destiny.

Because a destiny, I am told, is something worth having.

       To the boy wanting to be like a leaf. Wanting to drift on Sylph's Autumn winds throwing breezes at Sycamores,

       Wanting to be a leaf owning nothing but the star ridges of its boarders as it floats along,

Because a man is too much like a pain.

Because a leaf is always better off torn about its branches.

Because Autumn is what he likes.

      To the lamb white wanderers who have lost their echo. Who have said "Hear me, I need to be heard, hear me."

Because an echo is green and I am brown, dirty, ungreen.

Because this is my own life.

Because to have a life, is to belong.

      To the boy sweating through Summer suns,
                                                    shivering through Winter wastelands,

                                                                      soaking through Spring showers,

                           the edict was written for you.

                 Because a name does not become a man.

                                              Because a man says who he is.