Poetry Month 2: Stormborn

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?