Here I Fly, In The Great City In The Sky
Here I fly; steadily afloat high
in the skies of my great city.
Technology, to which the likes of
no man down below hath ever witnessed, keeps
Wings, crafted of burlap and bronze, steadily waft in
the fresh atmosphere.
Rusted cogs sit and scratch and stammer, keeping
my functionality in tact. For I am mortal.
We mortals rely on petty machinery to keep ourselves
afloat, yet we take our mortality for granted.
Mine own great city of Columbia, sits in the clouds, in turmoil.
Havoc reaped across her great fields and scrapers.
There may lie danger, but in life afar from her,
I am unscathed.
To my fellow man, whom knows not what their siege upon
the great city brings themselves, remember these words;
What I am doing is not a natural thing; T'is a privilege.
T'is a privilege granted by our own human capacity.
Art not our minds the sharpest blade of the entire
Art not our minds the heaviest-hitting of the entire
We humans were not created to fly, for we we