Paper Boats

Fickle, fragile, fumbling 

I shuffle between my fingers 

While you craft a masterpiece 

Of paper tears and skin. 

We do not often float, you and I 

Halfway between an imitation 

And a loosely raveled lie, 

Unraveled at the same time 

Stood facing a hung jury 

Of bone-idle stones, leaves, twigs 

I have balanced on the edges 

Of expanses of water, humanity 

The reflections are familiar, though tiring 

The ripples slowly dying 

We try for a race and end up 

With a half-formed agreement; 

Sometimes we notice the swans are dying. 

Return every week for no reason 

Except routine, or to bear witness 

To another unmarked, unmade grave 

We let our creations fall, or fly 

To their grave or hole in the sky 

Watch them stop, drift, glide 

Our eyes turned in tune with the skies 

They always die

We know the consequences. 

Set foot back on dry land penniless 

And leave without fanfare or speeches 

We will return. 

To pronounce the words would be pointless, needless. 

There are times when the skies themselves are fire. 

Heed this.