A word, a whisper, a picture

glimpsed briefly through the fog.

Yet burned into memory

Is all I need to fly

My airstrip, my hot-air balloon

My ride straight into the clouds

Their world can wait, I’ve got work to do

Nothing of real value

priceless to them

and priceless to me

Above the clouds I find my canvas

Ethereal, barely existant

abstract and confusing

up there I see it clearly

up there I have an Eagle’s eye

up there I understand perfectly

Nature is a fickle guardian

she is content to let me ride my tangent to the sky

at least for a while

never long enough, but she cannot wait an eternity

My world can wait, She’s got work to do

or so the storm tells me

And the clouds darken, and the lightning flashes,

and down I fall

As I fall my eyes go blind

As I fall the canvas burns

As I fall the rain falls too

As I fall it stings my face, and tastes of salt.

I don’t feel the ground

I don’t feel anything

I don’t feel the fog

until I open my eyes, weary and weak

just strong enough to know I can’t see anything anymore

Then I feel it:

Those cold arms, strong and suffocating

those cold glares, supercilious and judgmental

those cold laughs, cruel and taunting

Then I remember to stand up and see

A picture in the distance, A word that isn’t there

And walk with thunderous applause, to my flying machine.

To go spread more paint amongst the clouds