Paper, Wood and String

It hangs slowly in the gentle drafts, gliding the wind, fearless. Fearless and foolish are perhaps always bedmates, reassuring each other with perfect complement. Paper, wood and string...only man could fashion wings out of them. Colorful flags left in its trail, seem a bit of curiousity for such a small thing, delusions of grandeur keep you alive when you're small-fry, I guess.

The heavens start to cry, soft warm rain, as if in their gentleness they can keep the tiny thing afloat. But alas, relative kindness does nothing to help those truly without hope. A lending hand, as the wind offers is but temporary respite; the doom is imminent. Still, I find the flight itself to be something of legend, for its how long we last against the inevitable that marks our make, not the imminent defeat.

I spread my arms wide, yet I don't take flight...not till I close my eyes; And then I can feel it. The furious wind blows around me, and it does not guide any more than I go where I want. It's a dangerous dance of friendship and mutual need, then again they aren't that different perhaps; friendship and mutual need. The damp grows around me, soft clinging drops endeavour to bring the journey to an end, sooner than expected.

Life's been a bit like that at times, a kite's flight with unknown destination, unsure footing and unpredictable weather ahead. I strut my tail regularly and I hope it keeps things colourful for other people, providing reprieve from their worries. The line runs fast every now and then, and the cuts can be deep...but pain keeps us alive, it's real, which in itself is a rarity these days. Arms feel strong when the updraft catches you and the body feels weak when events spiral out of control.

But we still fly, and sometimes that's enough. Besides, it's easy to get back up once you know how; all it takes is paper, wood and string...remember?

Flights of fancy, can you be
An escape from the day not born?
The darkness hovers strange grey
And this hour my mind leads me astray

Fair weather? Pah! Give me a storm
I shall fly the tempest, glint in the eye
Waiting for the opening to dive clear
For never have I lived until I die

I only find myself, alone
Yet I long to lose myself with you
As sure in my loss, as your gain
Such is the melancholy of this mood

Paper, wood and string to last
Wedded with glass, very sharp
If I cut, do I win? Perhaps
The truth of suffering be the same

Crimson at surface and unknown within
Skin deep scratches, bled to death