Sublime in my efforts, I beckon my wings,
My erudition to shelter my honest attempts,
I wasn’t born with feathers, or the authority to dream,
Nor with the conviction of the sky, as my limit.
Yet I would marvel in proclivity and resolve,
The endless possibilities of life, in flight.
My disposition is humble, that of a leaf.
A part of many, which complete a tree.
Caught in the middle, held by a cord,
I alone am irrelevant, dead by dawn.
The strings of my existence, grounded in my roots
My freedom would be a struggle, falling further to soot.
My dreams exaggerate when a bird brushes past me,
Swiftly with purpose, yet aimless digress.
What a life it would be, to glide freely in the wind,
The possibility of twisting, observing the world round by,
And maybe a bird would catch me by the beak,
Soaring above rocks, diving into seas.
These wings I have made, with blood and broil.
Nights of yearning, days glazed in pine.
Maybe that fall, would break me by my stem,
Maybe into oblivion, to dust I would melt.
Or maybe this miracle, to my end it would be,
Though short-lived, my one escapade.
