Rising through the smoke,
I streak upward.
I circle the palms with their
Open leaves pressed to the sky
They are calling me to
Come sit on them, but I do not.
I ride the shifts in the wind,
Higher, the lower, then higher still.
At last I'm free of the fire,
The smoke, the sound of the battle.
Free to be with Father.
Jun 11, 2016
Jun 11, 2016 at 6:40 PM UTC
Rising through the smoke,
I streak upward.
I circle the palms with their
Open leaves pressed to the sky
They are calling me to
Come sit on them, but I do not.
I ride the shifts in the wind,
Higher, the lower, then higher still.
At last I'm free of the fire,
The smoke, the sound of the battle.
Free to be with Father.
-A stone in my hand
