Flight In Red
Art by Norman E. Masters
Why do I sometimes feel like roadkill, splattered, run over and trampled by the day? Why do I sometimes feel like a lost three year old trying to find my way through a sea of legs while my body tries to remember how to breathe? Why do I sometimes feel like a specimen in its jar of formaldehyde on a dusty and sunlit shelf, referenced by a footnote in an article here and there? Why do I sometimes lose my balance as the sand beneath my feet gets pulled back into the sea and I fall helpless into what love creates? Why do I sometimes weep at the beauty of you?