People are comparable to the airs they traverse in,
going where they want on a whim and uncaring of the costs,
if they can afford it.
However, if a man measures himself on the distances of his journeys,
the number of layovers and connecting flights he endures to reach his destination,
using them as a means to relay the height at which he flies,
he has become grounded and broken,
fodder for spare parts and scrap,
picked clean by the ants that were once thought insignificant,
meaningless,
void,
cannibalistic in their search for an excuse to make their own,
which they build out of the success of others,
and nurse their sorrows in,
prolonging the mistakes of their generations-long self-feuds.
This is because he has misjudged his instruments,
the instincts that make him human first,
machine second,
and thirdly, above.

It's one step forward,
18 in the past,
I take things hard,
I hope that won't last,
If I had more courage,
cared less about people,
Maybe I'd love myself,
Not give into evil,
Eyes tick frantically,
Fingers always twitch,
My mind flails manically,
I count my intellect rich,
It's all a wall,
This stone facade,
Bringing on the fall,
Of one once thought god,
It wasn't the woman,
It wasn't his wealth,
It was what he hadn't thought,
It was only himself,
Midas chose to step down,
Too little too late,
The king now a clown,
A victim of fate,
Or was he this hour,
the **** of the joke,
His situation dour,
His life up in smoke,
Freedom was his,
To reclaim her anew,
and realizing this,
Like an eagle,
He flew.