I’m looking for a word.
The (ex)plosives are ambiguous.
Everything sounds like a bomb during the age of artillery.
A crow in the line of  fire.
As sensitive as an eagle in Pisces.
Dragging my intestines along his taut transit.
Everything connected like one big sonata.  
Morning Star misnomer, westward,  life.  
Death, spiritual, oversight.
Sunrise to sunset.
I’m being sanctimonious. 
I’m out of key in these spheres.
I cast the long shadow of escapism. 
I dare you to tread on me. 
Will I answer when someone returns to the pond?
Years down the track asking what it all means?
Do we really need another wagtail?
Another riddle with wings?
Another King who leaves no other?
‘I have moved on to better things.’
To another creator of rivers and tears and split tongues. 
A purveyor of boutique ochres and spears. 
I’m all ears
as the word escapes me.