You may think me erratic,
how I choose the western winds,
to guide me.
I fold,
in its fleeting breeze,
and I reshape,
to the form of its current.
You may think me unstable,
for my inaction without,
the western winds.
But of course,
any day,
I’d rather be a fool,
carried and swept by life,
than a rational one,
grounded in reasoning.
