Flight

why make 

my muse

my mirror friend

the bearer of the Mead of Suttungr

the all-knowing 

having prettier hair

is enough of an

insult to my spirit 

without fathomless 

understanding and more 

bitter-sweet wit 

the gods 

like to watch me 

launch myself

at the ladder rungs

where they are set

over my head 

they like to laugh 

because I keep believing

that I am getting closer 

this week

I’m limping around 

having smashed my leg

while leaping 

down from the heights 

trying to take

flight