Confusions Of Confucius

Con fessions say every thing you tell me. Talking leaves, enchanted is with the wind, blown from you to me. Karen you will never know, she is from the other world. Her con fessions mark every rock, pebbleless without a river, or stream to lodge her. Yet your con fessions, come still seeking fresh hands, held up an offering heard, not by you but of you. Being herd, the tailed kite flies anew. Though your thoughts come from all directions, channeled into one they are. One falcon, your wrist hides, heedless shooting ever upward, flying strait into the eye that offended you plucked forth, it shares it with you, knowing you will see all that was missed, when next you fly to kiss, a claw feathered fresh in a talon.