A boy dreams he could someday be
A rocketman, splitting the sky
Screaming toward space, his titanium steed
Bucking beneath him as it claws its way upward.
A young man takes a hard look at himself;
His flat feet, his weak eyes, his empty pockets.
With all these things and no influence his,
The sky is not within his reach; not in this life anyway.
The vapor trails left scratched across the stratosphere
And blown away by winds that he will never feel
Through the seat of his pants and the chute on his back,
Taunt, then drift away just like his dreams of flying.
So on the ground he flies as best he can
Lifting others held down more than even he
A rocketman without the sky to scratch his name upon.
And yet a life lived well, a flier just the same.
© 2014 by Tom King