Kites

Up in the sky, across its expanse

bright concepts hover, perchance,

on hold due to the circumstance

for something to break their trance.

Lying in wait behind the clouds

singing old spirituals in a round

abstract kites painlessly drowse

until, one by one, all are bound.

The signal always unfathomable

their plummeting, unpalatable,

evoking memory of shooting stars

invisible fusion birthing quasars.

Each tether is knitted fast

around the shiny energies

a cloth not meant to last

fading the kites' memories.

Drifting on the wind they travel

in order for every yarn to unravel

through the spacial rend they go

to master the liftoff down below.

Catching the right draft can be a drag
it requires aerial ace swerve
garishness is a hot air balloon sandbag
undeserving of the kites' verve.

The more simple the more free
trinkets get tousled by the wind
weightless wins the Grand Prix
that agile who is disciplined.

Kites cannot depend on the weather
for sky is a Russian roulette
thunder may strike from the aether
making amulets a lightning-rod threat.