fluttering touch on skin like feathers
air rushing through wings – whether up or down
dizzy, veering, swooping, plunging,
vigorous pumping of muscles in pinioned strength
borne by an unknown force away from the familiar
far from my past, my present –
uncertain if there is a future
suspended in no time or place
heat of sun and movement melts and loosens
makes effort and resistance soft and vain
wondering if my will or another’s has control
captured by a superhuman god
or chancing fate on whims of wind and gravity
heading toward Olympus or the sea
fainting from high altitude or drowning
the plaything of a god or a victim of my fall
am I Icarus or Ganymede?
Edited by traveler (02/13/13 10:01 PM)
A man talking sense to himself is no madder than a man talking nonsense to not himself.
Or just as mad.
So there you are.
Stark raving sane.
- Tom Stoppard, Rosencrantz & Guildenstern are Dead