Gravity's Tax
The sky is not a gift; it is a heist,
A rhythmic theft against the heavy earth.
We trade the safety of the solid ground
For hollow bones and lungs of sudden worth.
Each feather is a blade that cuts the blue,
A jagged wish against the pulling tide.
To fly is not to leave the world behind,
But to command the gale and stay inside.
Infinity is earned in every beat,
A desperate math of hollow, wind, and bone.
The clouds are only reached by those who know
That heights are never reached—they’re only loaned.