Questioning Form

The wide and open.
Every cloud; brushed across.
And this feeling that there is nothing in or of me.
The endless expanse
and I hide in.
To be a form
To be only called and degreed,
Respected and revered?
Might I drift apart and be of,
and as wide as open?
Perro, why this urge to wander?
And sense that I betray if I hide with Title;
the bones of this illusion: secure.
When are you more so than embracing the endless open?
Atop the clouds and beneath them
In arms; and away from
So very far away that you are not

in arms now of that Gracious Beast.