Fly
The waves shout,
Crashing tumultuously on the slippery rocks
Standing on the cliff I try to see my reflection
In the space between me and the water below
Hunching down, I smell the grass,
Bury my fingers in the cold earth
My sanity prevents me from lying down
So I jump, and fly through the mist
The wetness of the air embraces my feathers
A melancholic smile touches my face
And I whistle the tune of age-old forgotten songs
The static in my head starts to form rhythm
Down below, a shiver of sharks splash the water,
Calling me to them, threatening me, taunting me,
Ignoring them, I fly back to the cliff
As the day comes to an end,
I steal one last glance at the sharks below
And wonder, is it better to fly alone in the cold?
Or will the stomach of a shark provide me the necessary warmth?
A concise, haunting meditation on freedom and temptation, where flight becomes an act of self preservation, and the sharks below embody the dangerous warmth of surrender. The final question leaves the poem suspended between solitude and survival.