Swift hum and fleet
and dash of street
hooves catch up to follow
wings aside but
start to stride
and stretch the air to swallow
that ground below
should feel so slow
and the land but empty and hollow.
The clouds that glide
along your side
and tell you now you’re flying
to leave the land
that smother of hand
to forget the feeling you’re dying
a lack of pain
is ne’er true slain
‘course, pain still exists when you’re crying.