He flew like He was meant to fly,
Like he was going to tear the sky,
But the sky was too far and not real,
An untouchable, unreachable goal,
An illusion, that’s all,
And his wings were made of paper.
Convinced he had a purpose,
A purpose that he had to find,
Drifted with the wind,
Moving forward, falling behind.
He knew he was special
And Maybe one of a kind,
He knew he can do anything,
He only needs to make up his mind,
But suddenly he started falling
And he didn’t know why,
Maybe a wrong path, a wrong day.
He looked up, pushed up,
Full of hope and conviction,
Yet he kept falling.
Doing something wrong, but what?
Like a shriveled leaf,
He kept falling
And crashed nose first into the ground
Where many like him were lying
At the feet of a child,
Playing his afternoon games
Of paper planes.
Poetry © Copyright 2017, Niharika Jaiswal