Where are we going?
This question penned so frequently
So typical, easy, misty in the mind
The creaking of the wooden planks
Brushing cumulonimbus with eyes open
Arms folded behind the head
The grab of grass somehow more
On the tiny hairs on Our arms, fingers
Than the pull of gravity on Our imaginations
And they float, snap, twirl up from Our chests:
Quiet helium balloons
When will we be there?
The ceiling is broken and with age it mends
We are pirates, we are unicorns,
We are the fearless stick wielders of a generation
Neglected by the power of glowing screens
Trapped by nothing.
The balloons gain speed
We gain momentum with power in
Shaping the clouds with Our own inconstancy
Our slowness; Our change in pace,
Our unwillingness to sleep without the stars above our heads
Why does it have to change?
We will reach Our arms back into our watches
Turning the cogs, slowing them, stopping them,
Ticking them by hand,
Reversing until we are what we were;
All that could have been then is what was
We were the fearless wielders of limitless potential
Now made weak by a propensity for quickness
A need for now
And in that need, Our truth holds a secret want