Before the season change

I lay face down in the grass,
we evolve,
this is what we do,
as life,
that tinkers on a world's fabric,
ironed with continuing religion or fame,
both are wrong.

Cherry Blossom bloom, intense; such stealing sun,
as leaf unfurls to yawn into the spring,
I find myself consumed with excuse of fantasy within existence,
sad that we are not small enough to be desired to be found,
passé beings impotent to inspire or impress,
specie evolving to produce more;
waste
and destroy the sense of space,
God resides galaxies away.

But I do beat my chest when I’m happy,
sometimes,
And there is an instinct within I will not control.
Sometimes,
I am free,
I am the Cherry Blossom blooming in the sun,
or the leaf birthing in spring,
I am consumed by fantasy at any excuse.

There is a part of me I cannot control.