Once a little lad that hadn't grown any more than little,
Pleaded that God carry him away, and in one roll, skittle,
Alas! The potion killed him, but not as he sought,
It spurred on the fighter and put to rest the distraught,
In time, he grew wings, ran in delight, before rising to soar,
He couldn’t any longer, as he could once, himself abhor,
Past, planets, love and life clipped his wings often, tried to make him budge,
Do you not feel wronged? they’d ask, tempting him to jump off the ledge,
Do you not crave the applause of thousands around, as if not, why you pretend?
Of what purpose is your every doing, if only deafening silence remains in the end?
Why not blind and steal the sunshine from those that laboured to dim your light?
Why not wallow if not wield the sword, you are no longer shining bright?
And just when it seemed they had won and had ushered the monster to end his fight,
He saw his wings emerge, wiser and stronger, to carry him over the abyss of fright,
Every endeavour of his, he learnt was, peerlessly, an end in itself,
Without the din, he knew, in his doings, he found his own thriving self,
For one that isn’t insistent on what’s in the glass, life is always full and well,
To such the glass is always full to the brim with countless bounties, he could now tell,
In time, his eyes could sight the ruthless flames that beneath him gloriously burned,
He could mock them and fly high and away, and they’d give chase, like a lover spurned,
When the fire died and past, planets and people found new orbits to move to, in the end,
He exulted for he had none to fight, none to flee, for which his wings he needed to tend.
