Cruising
altitude.
Darkness covers
the sky,
the city below
just an ant farm,
decorated with
Christmas lights.
I fly as if I’d
been born with these wings,
these pearly
white propellers of flight.
Barrel rolls and
dives and turns,
making even the
most exhilarating roller coaster jealous.
How am I so
lucky
To receive this
gift of flight?
Hovering above
my leg ridden companions,
Soaring through
the air with the best of them.
But like a
gambler out of luck,
This joy ride
soon came to an end.
My coveted wings
vanished,
Inexplicably,
Inevitably,
The ants got
bigger,
The lights,
brighter.
I’d probably
still be falling,
if it weren’t
for the ground below.
I opened my eyes
Man wasn’t meant
to fly.
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