“Many times he died.

Many times he rose again.”

The boy is alive

not truly living.

Going through life on autopilot.

The shell of who he once was 

now holds hands with hollow tragedy.

Needing to scream 

unable to find the air,

the silence of this empty thoughts

once awakened his bones.

Unable to pinpoint

the yoke of his own plane.

This inevitable turnstyle of life goes around in a loop,

needing to claim his baggage before moving forward

on his journey.

Turning to the screaming baby seated behind him

he asks “why are you crying?”

“What do you possibly have to be sad about yet?”

failing to recognize

sorrow had possibly already stripped its innocence.

Many times he felt dead.

The war in his mind 

far greater than any physical pain imaginable. 

But every turbulent,

secures his seatbelt,

causes a glance at the beauty out the window.

Allows him to rise above the clouds

and fly…