Average things with average wings
Spill onto an endless plateau
Spread silly, silent and sun-dried
From elbow to elbow.

Of differing terrains, nothing remains
No mountains to disrupt
The stagnant, still soil slipping
To the horizon, sharp and abrupt.

No valleys low or rivers bow
To create swampy forest lands
So Sapiens sit singing \"Sick of it!\"
Wings dead in their hands.

As humanity grows and nature shows
The wear and tear of our birth
Through sad, shapeless space Sapiens search
for another home, another hearth.

And by and by, they do try
To think outside their binds
To will wind and wings with wonton wiles
And blow a billion bored minds.

03/28/2006

Posted on 03/29/2006
Copyright © 2024 Tracy Ellen