I am not made of

I am between the earth and the heavens.

Population, I

Teetering between the two

Dipping like a kilometre gage

The bipolar foot.

 

I have heckled the ground

And its simpletons

Think not of their art.

 

I have yearned for the clouds

And the noble minds

Read scrolls from the heart.

 

But a little bird from home said,

            “It is not art.”

The indifferent sky above me breathed,

            “You’re just a girl.”

 

Sometimes I lean towards the ground

But I am too cold to diffuse.

 

Your arm-in-arm lane-leaping, I

Refuse.

 

Sometimes, I paddle to the sky

But matter and muck won’t let me through

 

And all the worldly jargon it

Ensues.

 

If I am not made of

Teddy Bear stuffing

An earful, a hug and a kiss, or

The globe that sits in your study

Post-modern whatsit,

 

Then tell me who.

The End

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