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PIGS WON'T FLY
 
Yes, the little ones wonder,
but, like you, their thoughts are so small.
Go ahead, run away,
but you can't lie about the sky.
It doesn't fall, and pigs won't fly.
 
Resurrection, ascension, assumption.
Spare me your consumption.
Do not feed me any more corruption.
I'd rather not love at all
than to love so small.
 
Long ago secure,
deep in the corn,
I fled the warmth 
in search of scorn.
 
Down the long street I escaped from home.
Liberated from potential,
freed from expectation,
I found my near rescue where the long street ends,
the one place where the sky does fall
and the mermaids never swim.
 
The beauty of a life mocked
by the bold and the proud curdled into a crowd.
Better dead than unexpressed,
even if hushed, pretty, and tressed
in a corn-yellow sundress.
 
Fallen I stand.
Crawling away from the long street
from under a heavy sky,
I am electrified and rectified.
Freed of the lessons of the damned,
taught by the selfless well-wishers of man,
no longer searching like you
for the pig who flies.

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