o white dove, basis
of all that is me.
you are untied with me,
free to follow your wish.
then why do you ask of me,
this favour that is not one.
"Let go", you said.
Surely you didn't mean that.
For the mind plays tricks
Keeping you in a haze.
What the hurt mind shows
is not reality, the reflection
of a broken mirror.
The blue sky is not freedom,
the wind is not happiness.
This shoulder you sit on,
Is not heaven.
Yet they are yours to claim,
mementoes of "you".
No, you can't give them up,
Though your delirium thinks
otherwise. No, it's not right,
as the fragmented mind says it is.
Go, if you want to, scout
the horizon for the truth,
The truth that you know,
that the sooty veil hides.
Go now, but fly back to
the shoulder that still awaits
your feathery landing.