The Wise Old Owl

stranded in my exits, the blurred
murmur, the corpulent gaze, fits
the last mosaic of my divine command

gracious as it is, the nesting post is
no longer provoking the tempestuous
relationship once held so dear

now its girth is measured by invisible elements,
scrambling in a gratuitous haze, fit
for blasts of prosaic and inevitable last stands.

the grip, now a product of dragon lint
holds no discourse, is a song of legends
and a fragment of the last of the divine command