Falling To Fly
We don’t know why we return to try -
desperately longing to fly,
only to find ourselves
left high and dry,
and repeatedly falling..
failing some sort
of test each time,
and settling for less
than our true design,
we see ourselves slide
to second best.
And so it is: too late we find
that we are not the flying kind,
that all the rest,
in shining dawn are flying free,
whilst, tangled in our shabby nest,
we’re still growing,
learning to breathe.
And too late then, we hear each sing
of salad days and captured kings:
each song to keep him company,
keep his secrets, clip his wings,
tiny planets to be fed
softest down and shiny things,
the plumage of a life well-led.
Until the rush of our star-led
migrations on warm
currents together seem
than stolen dreams,
confined to somewhere
But in the constant crawl upstream
we learn a warning:
there is no trap, no cage or calling,
no invisible pull or shove
that selects who spirals
from those that soar high above -
some will always be hunted down.
For it’s not called falling for nothing –
as the hand needs the glove, falling is a chosen act of surrender
to the relentless hounds of love.
©️Anna Murzyn Dec 2022