I flew in formation.
As far as, I could.
But my depth of perception is not particularly, good.
It is only impressionism that comes alive.
A place in which conformity cannot hide.
Year, upon lonely year, hiding from pride.
A violence sighted by my benign plight.
Again and again, the sway of far off visions.
Blurred by cat scratches so unkind.
But my moving consequences…a broken lens for the blind.
Whereabouts childhood impressions are meant to distort and bind.