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And so comes the inspiration, arriving on tiny feet, amongst the confusing surroundings; they've become cluttered, obscure.  Many specifics are lost among the menagerie.  The gear-getting is pretty sorry lately.  I could be sorry later.  Little observations are hardly the stuff of these pages.  Though, once they've been read, the mind is able to understand their writing again.

          Placed under a clear canopy,
          Viewed by the general populace,
          at leisure:
          A torrid scene plays once more,
          And a jeweled glove kisses the floor.
          The patrons respond with a roar
          befitting an angry soul, really free,
          aware of its years amongst shadows,
          and its ability to now see,
          that a small part of the whole,
          doesn't exert force upon the other.
          Trapped beneath the bubble,
          I sit and wait,
          Concerned.

The miles dropped away behind, all of the time it had once taken to span their length but a queer concept now.  With a persistent roar and whine, the silver bird carries its common cargo to the other side of the planet of its birth.

Below, far below, beneath what was seen from the beast, was a rolling liquid of fire and metal, a birthplace for such awesome creatures as this.  By divine right, this particular one began to roast in its own flames.