Almost Took Off, Already on Tiptoe

Almost took off, already on tiptoe. The ground's hanging by a hair from feet worn down over the years. The third eye's begging to pop out on my brow. Success, falls: it's all the same. Doesn't matter now — the heights or the bottom… Pushing your way up or down — the flight matters more. The prize doesn't. Flight… from that word it feels so warm to fly like a UFO. To be identified by no one. Awareness like a gentle cream — rub it in and never wipe it off and just fly, fly, fly… Like a gull in the morning over the bay under bright sun, with the shimmer of free wings. Pull off a trick — flutter on, working my hands to the bone! Turning up a clean little belly to streams of light, like a mug. Once it's full — to land again, to keep on giving love.