Distance

Flying on wings of freedom,

Of which we came from.

No hand or branch can reach,

'Cept what is lurking in a breech

You fall steep,

Certain in fate, you wish sleep.

No hand to rest,

No branch to nest,

You are left with the choice,

To enter death's cold embrace,

Or

Finish the race.

Find the hand of the one

Who is never done,

The one by your side,

You're one of a kind.