there’s so many of them it’s almost impossible
to tell who’s living and who isn’t because of all the
sweat and stench of fear and deodorant
that masks their heavy breathing and
heavier hearts - burdens that they carry around
as if they were important. if only they knew that
wounds heal and scars fade, maybe, just maybe
they would already be flying
but of course you can see the halos and the horns
and the tails and the wings that flicker like
their souls in their hollow chests, only the slightest hint of their singular intention - to try to fly
but it’s the halos and horns and tails and wings that truly prevent them from flying
they are jealous of the birds that walk above and wonder how they fly - their hollow bones and hollower hearts uplift them to the black skies and
blacker stars. but these people full of blood and
bones and lifelessness are like stagnant stones
infested with dying moss, littering the ground like
ugly splotches on an ugly painting
only some know the way to hover and float above
everyone, instead of taking in they give out,
give out death and anger and hate and frustration,
let it flow like a river, washing down off away
the pain, like a stone caught in the gentle floods of
rage, leaving a trail of love and loss in the depths
these are the people who will rise up and rise
higher than anyone ever because they
know how to let go let off let be and
who don’t need wings to fly because they
know that memories are boulders and grudges are
killers and only when they give their whole
heart and soul then do they take off and
fall, fall when they realise they had asked for
too much, way too much, and realise that flying
has its own burdens, a paradise in hell, a curse
with the shading of a blessing, floating in the air
for all who reach out for to, and realise in the end:
walking was always enough.
This is the fourth poem in the set of 8.
Do you fly?
