17 November, 2008 at 16:16 (Uncategorized)

Flying high on wings of wax,
that’s our common ground.
Sat there in the front room,
admitting how we burned.
Flying high, melting feathers,
dripping down to earth.
See us fly and see us fly,
the only way we knew our worth.
I fell first, you last,
the third; somewhere between.
Our common ground, falling from the sky,
something to admit to,
but we never asked,
why we’d taken to the sky in the first place.
So take our paces then,
take our dreams.
We still pick them out of clouds,
knocked off course by melting wax,
and this, our common ground,
of bruised and slightly smoking survival.



  1. mayamaia said,

    Thank you.

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