We've Dreamed of Flying

The French call it "L'appel du vide," which translates to something akin to "the urge to jump off of high places."

We’ve dreamed of flying,

            over and over,

           taking the sky with our frozen wings

            and soaring through a restless air.

We’ve dreamed about a lot of things,

            but that doesn’t mean that they’ll come true.

 

When we stand underneath an evening sky,

            the night drags on and the wind picks up,

            the dogs will howl and the waves with slosh,

            and I will dream of an endless life.

 

“Fly like a bird!”

            you say to me,

            and I flap my wings and teeter over the edge

                        of a creaking tower.

            I breathe until my lungs are full and lift me off the edge.

            My feet spring up; my eyes water

            But I am still hopeful.

 

I am learning to fall.

            There’s an albatross around me neck,

            and his wings do not help me learn to fly.

            They unfurl,

feathers flying in my ears,

                        feathers flying in my eyes,

                        feathers flying in my mouth.

            They are large-winged creatures;

their weight pins me to the tower;

                        their wings droop down; the tips graze my shoes;

their head rests by mine and buzzes all night.

            I take a step off the edge

                        and instantly,

                                    I learn to fall.

 

This albatross sings a song,

            The softest song everwritten.

It doesn’t have any lyrics,

         but I can hear the sorrow in his trill

            and the fall of his heart as my feet touch the ground.

We’ve taken a step off the edge,

            and though I know that I will fall,

                        I am still hopeful.

We plan on bombing the traffic,

            splattering pedestrians with hopes and dreams,

            so they may feel our pain.

They have always kept both feet on the ground,

            but I would like to soar.  

            No, we would like to soar.

So we wish the days away as I gaze upon the sky,

            and my head lays flat against the ground,

                        cracked cement fills with my blood,

            and the sky looks too beautiful from this view.

The albatross winds around my neck;

            he’s slinking across my open wound;

there are feathers in my ears;            

there are feathers in my eyes;

                        there are feathers in my mouth.

Feet surround me,

            glued to the pavement,

                        and I laugh at their dreams.

We’ve dreamed of flying,

            over and over,

            and now I have a chance.

We’ve stood under the sky with its blinking lights,

            and I can imagine that when I fade,

            I will come back to with a better view.

The End

1 comment about this poem Feed