They could pilot heart like a herd of running mastodons, charging through a storm,
Heavy rain drops pelting their skin, they are unfazed as to free themselves of the force.
Their strength screaming of complexity and poise.
Their minds ran steady; without a doubt.

Now

Their hearts beat like mastodons have been extinct. A halt comes to their mighty charge.
Their strength has dwindled to loud whispers, which no one can here.
Their minds walk in circles, questioning everything.

They

Have lost their way in the symbiotic grasp of the sky.
The kind of clouds that dish pain, aid addiction, and make planes clash with thunder.
They lost their being, the path out of the storm, and the heart which they pilot so dear.

Are

The hearts of those who have fallen lost forever?
Alone, can they no longer pilot their lives? They must realize that
You can not dream yourself a character; you must forge yourself into one.

Unfortunate.

The pilots lost site of what was real, while their egos ran in the storm.
They are that painting that was never fished, the candle whose wick burnt out before the wax could even touch the floor, and that child who gave up on learning how to ride a bike.
They could see only blackness, smell nothing, and hear only lies.
They were lost. They hit eject too early.