Roots and wings.

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.