Origami cranes
or simple paper planes:
if we cannot unfold,
how shall our stories ever be told?
Fragile little things
with frosting, gauzy wings.
We fly to overcome the great divide.
Lurching in the air,
searching everywhere
for answers and a fissured coast to hide.
The sea is boiling way below.
Our wings are numb with their inflexible forms.
How can we resist?
We pray for a gentle winds to blow.
We have never been ready for the storm,
not a storm like this.
We are all paper planes.
It’s the age of the hurricanes.
We fly too high
and we can’t take a turn.
We are all paper planes.
It’s the age of the hurricanes.
Can’t navigate, now it’s too late
for us to learn.
Instead it’s time to crash and burn.
Thrown into this world.
Did we take off? Were we hurled？
We can’t remember, nothing to recall.
Sliding through the skies,
gliding without cries,
without words or heritage, until we fall.
The sea is boiling way below.
Our wings are numb with their inflexible forms.
How can we resist?
We pray for a gentle winds to blow.
We have never been ready for the storm,
not a storm like this.
We are all paper planes.
It’s the age of the hurricanes.
We fly too high
and we can’t take a turn.
We are all paper planes.
It’s the age of the hurricanes.
Can’t navigate, now it’s too late
for us to learn.
Instead it’s time to crash and burn.
We are all paper planes
in the eye of the hurricane …
Have we all accepted our fate?
Take one last deep breath and wait!
Wait!
Wait!
Now!
We are all paper planes.
It’s the age of the hurricanes.
We fly too high
and we can’t take a turn.
We are all paper planes.
It’s the age of the hurricanes.
Can’t navigate, now it’s too late
for us to learn.
Instead it’s time to crash and burn.