This flesh would fly,
this crawling creature climb
  if not for unseen strings
  (tethered as we are by time)
  and want of wings.
So it is we knot a noose
  in rotten rope
On blended bough
  we hang our hope.
Heaven seems much nearer now.
This soul could soar.
The staring eye in silent sky
   watches dreams die.
Falling's what the flight is for.