Fleet-Footed Flyer

Hey fleet-footed flyer, running up the broken hill, let me follow you through the frozen forest, down the windswept valley of timeless lore, up the curdled frame of the mountain forlorn.  We'll hurdle the fences, squeeze through the branches, drag the miles out of the bygone era behind us.  If I can't keep up with you, if the forest should prove too thick, if the snow should fall too fast, the wind in my face too ferocious, the fractals of the branches too dense, the distance immense, the minutes condensed, my legs powerless to keep churning this machine of a body, do find it in your heart to slow down, and wait up for another tired soul. 

Hey fleet-footed flyer, running up the broken hill, where do you find the endurance to keep going?  Where will your body go when it finally breaks down?  How many men and women will you leave in the dust, rusted over by the dirt-smoke that kicks off your heals?  Does the wind turn with you after each change of direction, an instrument of your fate designed to compromise ours?  How fast can you really run, with all that latent strength of yours hidden in the form, never to be seen at full throttle, the fraction of it withheld for the sake of longevity? 

Hey fleet-footed flyer, running up the broken hill, you are like Pheidippides on the oily plains of Greece, shirtless and shining with sweat, without constraint and without hesitation, just the fierce will of a spirit possessed, moving forward, angling through the field, charging down the runway, drifting through the air like a peregrine in flight, carefully avoiding the flowers at your feet.  When night closes in, when the sun paints the sky red, and all the monks retreat inside the sanctuary to meditate; that is your finest hour, when your muscles are as loose as bullets, your hair like an aileron in the mist, your face hammered by the alpine updrafts yet entirely unaffected by them, gliding freely upon the marbled terrace of a forgotten temple. 

Hey fleet-footed flyer, running up the broken hill, take me with you past the abandoned houses of old, down the hopeless alleys of loss, far up the winding river that sings you spacious hymns, propelled by Gregorian Chant through the invention of distance, to a remote vista at the rim of the galaxy, 'round a secluded lake resting at the basin of twilight, the water cast in velvet from a strobe of stars, a place removed from all the rest, where time stops and the day is suspended, my legs sputtering 'round each bend of the trail, my arms losing control with each heave of breath, my soul giving itself back to the forgotten skies above, surrendering to the air aloft, lift me off the ground, onto the trail of a new day.