By Rachel Stevenson

It does not speak,

But still, it moves

Trapped within its bony cage

the weaving of a tapestry ensues

Grasping at scraps of thought and word

It swiftly stitches them together

Impatient for something profound to occur

It does not see,

But still, it designs

Like a starving artist hungry for adoration

Sacrificing its oxygen to make what was once crude, refined

And with its creations, it is far too modest

For it paints with words, creating invisible Sistine Chapels

That after being spoken fade and become useless

It cannot steer,

But still, it navigates

Guiding the vessel of flesh

For its destination awaits

As it dreams,

It peruses through saved memories

Seeking out hidden meanings

Only to find itself lost in reverie.