Stormborn: A Poem
Peter, come out of the clouds.
You fly too high.
The virtues of the ground
outweigh reaching for the crib.
Born of the storm
of the mind’s psychic violence,
you cut to the quick.
I hurt in equal measure
to how I’ve been hurt.
Come up from the ground, you say.
I’m content here. I won’t call you
down from Never Never Land,
but will let you soar in self-denial.
You never should have
taught Wendy to fly.
Now we all fly too high.
Electrical skyfire.
How can we not be burned?
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