Since I was a child,
I’ve never dreamt of flying.
I’ve never slowed down,
Though walking was tiring,
And lifted to take to the skies.
Is it wrong,
To be content enough on the ground?
To not want my shoulders to crack
With the weight of white wings on my back,
And for feathers to form me a shroud?
How high would I fly?
Then, how far would I fall?
In the ocean like Icarus, like a bird’s final thrall.
I’m not scared of heights,
Just afraid of the fall.
They’d tell me my head’s in the clouds,
And urge me to come down,
But if flying is so normal to want,
Then how come I’m still on the ground?
So I guess the ground is where I’ll stand,
And the ground is where I’ll stay.
I wish I hadn’t planned
To, by now, have flown away.
Since I was a child,
I’ve never once dreamt of flying.
Though walking was tiring,
And my joints ached and popped,
I preferred climbing,
Rather than flying to the top.