As I sit here flying high in the friendly skies, my mind and heart still jumps to skydive to your loving arms, free from the mileage and blues seas I barely see wondering when the next milestone is missed.

Aimed right but armed wrong in explanation; absence that swallows like absinthe, less the rawness like Cane did Abel was able to sweeten the cane grown from fields of patience and truth, not exploitation.

Seeds blessed and motherly nurtured with the foundation and savory ingredients pining for cultivation, misses the parental precipitation of heaven sent angels beating the earth like a symphony even Mozart can’t mathematically decipher.

Wings so graceful blaze the skies like Apollo’s chariot tread marks on a collision course with the horizon, the lucrative means never make up for a farmer’s ends lost in space…growth…is but an abysmal taste to a degenerate generation that clings to the wings of Icarus…

Flying so high, stretching so far, scorching the very planted foundation cultivated by past directions, present trajectories, and future flights.

Attention: Passenger 08 please advance to the gate…passenger 08….passenger 8…