May
13
The Inventor
Standing at the peak of my own mountain,
Looking across as I dance around and
Smile at the space between the thorn rivers
Weak in the face as its cramped from rigors
The flying thing I never created,
Flying thing left a mission belated.
Fly across clouds if the wings kept rigid,
Freeze between clouds, storing blueprints frigid.
Opposite top entices with treasure,
Broken machines from excessive pressure.
Red wire, blue wire, cogs dance for the pleasure
Brilliant imperfections for good measure.
Metal and rust layer this sides surface,
Phantom trust has scarred courageous purpose.
Fruits of riches are just not enough
For machines never built with the right stuff.
