The sky, I think, is made mostly of air.
A substance with weight and stiffness
Like water, or metal or stone.
It obscures the view.
A gas balloon rises like cork;
Like a life-belt released
Clawing gasping bursting upwards To the top where a wisp of spider’s web
Floats on the breeze,
Like sea weed, drifting.
The birds are like fish. Trees are anchored,
Washed by the current.
I am pressed on all sides
Like a diver, supported, held together
Far, far below the surface.
No more clawing, no more gasping.
No more dreams
Of bursting upwards.
Resting, like a stone.
Settling, like a fine rain of silt.
Or snow. . For One Stop Poetry
http://onestoppoetry.com/
