It's a paradox -
That once I took your flight patterns seriously.
To understand that life is not to be rushed,
and that rushing means
LIFE isn't being enjoyed.
Yet you -
Are not a bird.
You are not a man. Or a woman -
You are just some winged thing trapped
Between the potential of the sky
And your badly rooted feet, flinging clods of earth
To that ground you squeeze to tiny pockets of your understanding.
Angels arrive safely,
and they don't get speeding tickets along the way. Unlike you.
It appears you are amongst mortals,
Flinging into time warps
of arrested personal manifestation.
You are pedestrian. You congregate in some hangar of mortals
who fail to operate in the here-and-now.
You drive, you hurl, cursing,
between the dimensions of
wish fulfillment - and - "maybe IF's"! It's such an enormous deal to you.
You'd think your ego was a Sports Utility Vehicle.
Not only do your fellows accrue speeding violations
but they exist between placements of sincerity.
And you! What is this buzzing?
If you are going to be so disingenuous with me,
would you mind
Considering
To be more genuine
And more present
With your crap? Even your crap is insincere
And what's so rank about your dubious file system of being
Is that even when you're unpleasant, you are not really here.
How deplorable. Even your negativity
Fails to allow you to really show up! ~
I cannot take your disbelief in me seriously
Since - - now that I look more closely - -
I observe
That you are ducking in an automatic blind
Quacking, as always, to half-bleating little chirps. Mini-squawk-squawk-squawk.
And let the chirps fall where they may,
Your song will never cause the angels to shower you
with kisses
On their way.