We are all kites in the sky,
riding on the winds of destiny,
going to places the winds want us to see,
tearing us apart
when we dream of free will.
But every so often,
a kite loses its strings.
Paper and sticks turn to claws and a beak,
flapping its wings to soar the sky of its choosing.
No longer a prisoner of destiny.
Flying,
not drifting.
TYPERA 