Bleed into Monotony

An aerial view of the crowd shows me southwest of centre;
I can see myself, feel myself simultaneously
fading into the faces, any distinction unrendered
blurring into the normality of human-ness. 
Winds whip ’round the edges, through the chaos of bodies.
Wings carry away dreams filtering 
through Pheme’s sieve until reality is a single vision, 
the sound of a univocal droning melody. 
“In the mix” becomes a retired turn of phrase
when monotony becomes the air we breathe
when all I can see is all you can see
and same is the only color, anymore, that we bleed.