A Stumble of Words

Come on,
Said the Preacher of Sorts
Bootstrap yourself out of this
Stumble of words

Dontcha long for the sunlight
Dontcha want to ride free
Among the silent wide expanses
Of thought-less freedom
Riding high above

The pathetic muscle of intellect
(Yes, It’s also a muzzle)

Side slip shadows free
Untrammeled living
Flying high, high

Seagull wings
Straight arrow flight

Come on,
Bootstrap yourself