Wednesday, June 01, 2022

3927 : Flight path

When we talk, I often look at us with distant wonder - our talks should be of the earth, but they often appear completely hollowed out.

I see our souls akin to a tin cage. "Us" is a trapped bird. One which has been tied down for years. Freedom, eventually, on a day like today, might mean nothing. The wings no longer have any muscle.

There is an emaciated poem in the air. The meter is off, the lyrical check is loaf. 

Why would we succumb to this drivel? 

In the book I am reading, I read a sublime passage. Like always, as I read it, it occurred to me, that each of us carries a falcon within our hearts. The falcon, we dry off one flight at a the point that eventually what remains, is the coarse arid sand. 

Sand. Not the earth I would have wanted.

This is our world. We make it by inches. We break it by light years.

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