Sorry,
    I'm talking to myself
       It's not polite to talk to myself
          and not invite you
             into the conversation.


When my mind wanders
   think of me as a kite
      high off the ground,


 Distant on a string as
    I trust you with the spool.
 
As clouds get a Bit furious above us
 You know my attentions may
   draw dangers that hopefully
     won't more than tingle your fingertips,
       should a strike find my tail.


And as I exhale
  So does the wind
    Loft my Apparency
     of coherent desertion,
      leaving the
       horizon closer
               than


 the grounds Below.