I'm flying off the page

It's the fifteenth day of the month,

summer is mature

and expectations are fully-fledged

I'm flying off the page,

and I'm circling myself

like a moth

Voices rise from below like butterflies

I'm flying off the page,

watching my selfs take turns;

hearing my selfs breathe

inside a withheld moment,

shrugging shoulders

I'm flying off the page,

dodging immaculate conceptions,

wrapped in ill will and vile intent,

clear-sighted down the glare of James Webb

I'm flying off the page,

tendons and muscles flexing,

thoughts well illustrated,

the entire Cosmos encircling its selfs

and neighbourhood crows

Yes, I'm flying off the page,

picking up where I left off,

down an outpour of text,

elusive, obstinate, hard-headed,

pointless

open-ended