...Sometimes,
I think about it.

En pointe,
mid-plié,

a paper crane,
luckless,
having sprouted,
its lead-weighted wings.

A brief moment, spent,
turning,
somersaulting, in mid-air;

matter, meaningless,
yet, in perfect suspension...
faithless,
in a state,
of suspended belief...

...I want to know,
what it means to be happy, but...
maybe I'm not meant, to be?

The wind, brushes my lips,
and cheeks,
in a flurry, of harried kisses.

My toes, grip the railing
as if it were a springboard,
perched,
over the great well, of eternity,

and then release.

I fling myself,
skyward.

A paper crane,
with no legs, or feet;
the sudden lapse,
in the law, of earthly gravity

deceiving me--

leading me into thinking,
that I have achieved, flight...

but the engine dies,
and I leapfrog, into

untenable
darkness.