To what do I owe this prose?
Something that doesn't even match a name among the stars,already climbing away to a sea of clouds as I sit upon a tale of a beginning
A beginning without a muse to which I can lend my ears as I am in that same boat in a different sea
A sea that is another name in and of itself, a name that has lent itself to others and holds many layers to hide
Layers that I seek, for muse?
For myself?
I wouldn't know since I still have yet to find what they are
Whether they be truth, deception, or deception of truth
I still do not know.
For the purpose of layers is to hide away, to feel comfort in the bundle that keeps away the cold, but it also keeps away the sun that shines and the breeze that ruffles your senses clean with whistling song.
So do these layers I seek and have be the same? Does it keep me from the sun and sense of clarity that I observe and hope to guide to others? Perhaps this prose lends me its ears from the layers of beginning. To what end? What do I owe this prose?