Subtle it moves, snaring any thread allowed, gathering each to cords that bind.
Subtle it moves within a thought unguarded, shifting with the ebb and flow of a moment.
Subtle it is, knowing full well access is gained quietly … through the brilliant, shining words of those exalted, arriving and rooting in a shadow.
Subtle it is, riding emotions untethered, until seizing the reins … claiming its place, until we believe it is who we are.
Subtle it is, as we relinquish ourselves, becoming that which we are not, convinced we have always been.
Subtle it is in tone … its words and images enticing, flowing to a lull … gently to the point of slumber.
Asleep.
Dreaming.
Cords tightening, limiting the breath of life.
Just enough to walk.
Enough to work.
Enough to play the game.
But not enough to live.
Subtle it is until seen … until a ray of light stirs the one in slumber.
Subtle it is until that day we awaken … until the eye of man sees.
In that moment, its veneer is torn; its progress thwarted.
Subtle it is no more.
