Flying On Kites

A kite hovers,

on a stormy night,

the leaden drops;

drag it down,

 

the gale whispers

softly; to let go,

to give up,

to the flow

 

yet flimsy threads,

a thousand of em',

intertwine and entangle,

to hold the kite,

to his life so dear.

 

death may be;

an enticing offer,

yet I can't sever,

these threads at;

my own accord.