When I start hanging metaphors
on the air
in order to glide
into some sort of understanding about my life,
start hovering over myself
like a bird lifting its head out of a cloud
to see who is paying attention,
when its clear,
all I want to feel dusting my crop
is a little wing of pity,
and perhaps a little more love,
the pilot in me jets away
from trying to be as strong as a mountain,
and ends up feeling outmaneuvered
like everybody else.
the real subject is always you 