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.
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