I write my heaven into words,
Heavy ones that go unheard.
I fold them into a paper plane,
And let them go with no small pain.
My heaven's just a passenger,
A commuter in the rush-hour.
Hundreds want their dreams alive,
Hundreds of planes duck and dive.
A flock of fluttering flimsy thoughts,
Amid a murder of mayday reports.
A shift in the weather, a shift in the skies,
Enough to bury my heaven alive.
One spot of rain could be misplaced,
And my heaven would spiral out of the race.
The black ink etched in the wings of the plane,
Would run, distort, to others' gain.
Write your heaven into your heart,
Scan items in that grocery cart.
Hold your dreams tight until they exist,
Write them into the skin of your wrist.
Carve castles up your calves,
Line your face with lighting laughs.
Knead notions into knobbly knees,
Burn your bones with "I believe".
Weave wishes around your waist,
Burn the paper on which dreams are based.
Who decided we had to let our faith soar?
I let my heavens pile up on the floor.
If you put your dreams into words,
The trouble is they go unheard.
If you throw your dreams into the sky,
It's all for one, and your one dies.
I write my heaven behind my eyes,
So when I sleep my dreams come alive.
I let my heavens pile up in my mind,
I don't make them fly to places they'd never find.
***
So, um, yeah. My little brother makes really good paper planes. He has a book that used to teach him how to make loads of different types, and we hadn't ever been on a flight back then, so we'd draw ourselves on the wings and write little messages for people to see.
We always hoped they'd make it to the countries we wanted to go to.
As I got older I realised they wouldn't if we threw them, so we'd post them instead. Then I got older still, and realised they ended up in a rubbish bin somewhere.
So we'd make them, and I'd tell my brother I was going to send them, and I kept them in a box on my bedroom floor. I felt guilty, so at the end of the first year I confessed, and we threw them all on my friend's bonfire at New Year and hoped the atoms might end up where we wanted to go. Now it's tradition.
I know you signed up for poetry and not story time, but sometimes I think context is important. If you know the meaning for me, maybe it'll take on more meaning for you, you know?
Alex xxx