Ruminations of flight entice,
memories of floating upon clouds,
shouting out loud in blissful release
never leave my conscious mind,
as an afferent feast of experience
so missed, when I could fly.
I do miss that freedom, that high
so profound in mind, when clouds whiz by,
and birds with vacant expressions
try to understand as I press higher
above a burgeoning cloud bank,
forever in my eyes.
But fantasy aside,
I used to fly, and so beguiling the memory
I so miss that feeling of release,
of instant destinations I know to be
but a moment away to see,
when I’m not bound by earthly limits.
Soaring above the sea,
the wind in my hair, the salty mist
upon my face, foamy chops below
brings such a glow to my heart,
and up so high mountains seem so small,
textured landscapes of colored sprawl.
By night the lights like a fairyland,
a carnival of yellow stars upon the ground,
highways and winding paths
of streaming car lights a feats for the eyes,
as I swoop lower above the rooftops,
the scent of dinners cooking inspires.
Then upon the ground I shed my skin,
and feel the weight of gravity, akin
to an aching bone malaise,
the weight of human life betrayed
but only for a time,
in flying I find such peace.
Then in sleep I dream of flying,
awaiting the next day
to once again find those endless skies,
the freedom applied to a life
in captured human form,
forlorn so often, within that limitation.
Tony DeLorger © 2018
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