on your first moment of being alive you’ll wonder why god’s in the sky and how the ***** of your soul can’t grab hold of the air to steer you to die and on your last day you’ll attest that the plane in your chest can take the air from your crumpling house and fly you to god’s bed in the clouds the clouds will spray and dazzle with lightning purely designed to unravel all the twine lashed around your heart that keeps it form flying out into the dark of some columbonimbus forest where the pine trees are black and you’re only a tourist through the trillions of droplets of static don’t panic you won’t become static if your being is healthy and your course erratic through the eclectic college of higher thought and liar’s losses where what you said you’d ever do is who you are and it is you flowing through your floating soul far away from your crumpling home and what you said you’d never do is who you are and it is you and it’s flowing through your dying blood tainted brown with air and mud and who you are is how you fly with wings of soul and ***** of lung piloted by how you die with tar and drink and merrier things than you’ve ever known in a crumpling home because flight is happy and death is euphoric and falling is a trap sprung by calling for nothing but concern and disdain will slash at your face like raindrops cushioning a pilotless plane