Array ( [sid] => 114135 [catid] => 1 [aid] => mick [title] => What Was Meant to Fly, Has Flown [time] => 2006-02-02 07:39:35 [hometext] => ...soaring looks so easy when eagles and condors do it... [bodytext] => What Was Meant to Fly Has Flown


Tell me,
has gold become tin,
or,
is tin become gold,
or
was the metal but a thought,
an illusion,
who's reality was merely straw and wood,
who's value could be defined as just so much kindling?
Perception is so fickle,
so capricious,
vacillating as the whim blows.
Still,
there is a difference,
a very definite change,
perhaps as grand as metamorphosis,
a cathartic transformation,
perhaps as insubstantial as a chameleonic adjustment,
a little too much sun.
. . .
The intermingling of fumes and smoke,
still cloud the senses...
fire and ash are yet pulsating,
a golden orange and black rendering of fading warmth...
a conclusion making its presence known...
. . .
For the spirit to soar
their must be a rendering...
catharsis has a life,
a purpose,
only when impurities spoil...
for both the grackle and the eagle,
defecation and the initiation of flight
share a common moment...
. . .
come the morrow,
only a soft, powdery ash can be seen...
what was meant to fly,
has flown...
it matters little what was perceived...
be it tin or gold or straw or wood,
what was,
is no more...
a portion remains gravity's slave,
the balance,
soars.


rko
october twenty-sixth, two thousand five
[comments] => 4 [counter] => 226 [topic] => 21 [informant] => enigma [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 20 [ratings] => 4 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => Lifepoems ) Your Poetry Dot Com - What Was Meant to Fly, Has Flown


What Was Meant to Fly, Has Flown
Date: Thursday, 2nd February 2006 @ 07:39:35 AM AEST
Topic: Sad Poetry

Contributed By: enigma
What Was Meant to Fly Has Flown


Tell me,
has gold become tin,
or,
is tin become gold,
or
was the metal but a thought,
an illusion,
who's reality was merely straw and wood,
who's value could be defined as just so much kindling?
Perception is so fickle,
so capricious,
vacillating as the whim blows.
Still,
there is a difference,
a very definite change,
perhaps as grand as metamorphosis,
a cathartic transformation,
perhaps as insubstantial as a chameleonic adjustment,
a little too much sun.
. . .
The intermingling of fumes and smoke,
still cloud the senses...
fire and ash are yet pulsating,
a golden orange and black rendering of fading warmth...
a conclusion making its presence known...
. . .
For the spirit to soar
their must be a rendering...
catharsis has a life,
a purpose,
only when impurities spoil...
for both the grackle and the eagle,
defecation and the initiation of flight
share a common moment...
. . .
come the morrow,
only a soft, powdery ash can be seen...
what was meant to fly,
has flown...
it matters little what was perceived...
be it tin or gold or straw or wood,
what was,
is no more...
a portion remains gravity's slave,
the balance,
soars.


rko
october twenty-sixth, two thousand five


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