It is an odd sort of thing, to feel breath on your wings,
To soar to places, which others dare not know.
You are different they say, a creature of flight
And the curiosity of every child down below.

How they watch, how they wonder,
So intensely does it linger,
The rapt attention guaranteed
By the flick of your forefinger.

You hold them tightly, gripping hard,
Watching their wide eyes grow fast.
Full of wonder and amazement,
Never dimming as years pass.

You hear it softly, like a whisper,
Calling to you from purest dreams,
All the wonder and amazement,
Turned to longing of far away things.

Thoughts of flight and ever traveling,
Through the clouds and onto dawn,
Over seas of sparkling wine,
Into lands, so far beyond.

Seemingly innocent, precious thought,
Yet inescapable of the truth,
That it is not travel they wish for,
But rather to flee from land of youth.

Wondrous, they call it, absolutely wondrous,
To hold the ability of freedom that age grants,
To flee from all your rotten troubles,
To finally hold the cards of chance.

But you wonder if they know,
If they ever dared to think,
Of all the misconceptions,
That freedom ever brings.

You are never free completely,
Lifted of that heavy resting weight,
For you now hold a crushing other:
The colorless path of fate.