There’s a dream at night, of me floating up in thin heights
with clouds trying far too hard to catch up.  
This dream is sad, it hovers on horizons  
Because I’m grounded for now, my wings haven’t come yet.  
They’re lost in the mail, and I don’t have courage to hunt them.  

You see I’m scared of up there,
the density of air seems to fall short of supporting
my heavy disposition.  
My skin is fair and it may go right past crispy
with less atmosphere between me and the glowing bright.  

The twin orbs above my dream-self rotate in and out
but there’s a shared look of hate on their beautiful faces.  
They don’t want me here, this sky is their front yard.  
They’ve posted a sign “No Solicitors Allowed”
but I’m selling my dream, this heart to the highest bidder
to find my flight, my cowardly departure.  

The sun is mad, ******* at his potential neighbor, a smaller sort,
sun is tired of sister moon taking so much room.  
Perhaps life without the cold ashen face of her sibling would improve.  
This works for me, as I said at the beginning this is a dream at night,
one that just may be fulfilling if I decide to fly, if my wings arrive,
but I’m still so scared of the heights.