Why do we seek to paint the clouds above the solid earth?
As if, with such illusion, we could fly
We visualize our arms are wings awaiting feathered birth
And search for ledges closer to the sky
Why do we paint our mirrors with the palest of our traits?
As if, with such derision, we could flourish
We see a flaw so vacuous its hunger won’t abate
And virtues, we ignore and fail to nourish
Why do we cling to moments when we stood above the rest?
As if, by doing so, we’re truly better
We cling to every victory and hold it our chest
And scoff at those resigned to lesser letters
Why do we paint our days with all the storms we know we’ll see?
As if, by doing so, we’ll change the weather
We stand with old umbrellas, fires burning, set to flee
And die with arms that never sprouted feathers