|
|
Lift Realism tempered by dreams, I arch against your back, hugging you like folded wings; I have wandered mundane labyrinths and, escaping from the commonplace, remind you what drove Icarus to risk winged flight. Touching you, I touch my sun. The need to see you fly is always greater than my fear of falling. I breath Bernoulli and dream you. Listen to me, not gravity. |