Wings

Humans, wingless as they are,
Will scour the world around,
No stone unturned, near or far,
But quarry yet unfound.

And failing to even replicate
This dreamlike world above,
They simply learn to accept their fate
And so the ground they love.

Despite themselves, a greed remains,
Tearing at their core,
For futile are their avian feigns,
So much they yearn to soar.

A landbound man is twisted by
His own unsightly lack,
For even the smallest fly
Has found his craven track.

And so proceeds year after year,
A rolling stone so cast,
The truth growing ever clear,
That dream wings cannot last.

Perhaps dreams are just dreams,
From every heart the legend sings,
The day of flight will wait, it seems,
For the one who finds his wings.





Who shall it be? Perhaps we see their feathers, glimpses of possibility amidst the mundane. It seems they hide in plain sight. Perhaps above us they soar. Watch for the wings...for they may even be yours.

Note: this is kind of a quick poem, written on a phone in a bus on a road in summer in...