Take my hand.
He flies like the skies high rise have head tilted stunted stuck upwards position eyes as he flies by.
Motorised neurons hypnotised by synthetic mesmerised, demonized splinters we’ve all kept inside and still he flies.
Flies as love, seasonal gifts and Christmas float by, a black twilight and an eye for a shamanic eye.
Signalling, wonder and bespoke imagery from a tower top the fuse pops, lights sparkle as the show stops and my world comes to land like a unicorn in the promised land.
I can kneel but I can’t stand.
If you’re ever stuck for walking – come take my hand.
© G.P Williamson 2017