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By Alannah Taylor
Illustration by Isabel Mitchelson

You say you’d be a skyseeker
If you weren’t so afraid to fall.
So you listen from the earthly breeze
To the sparkling vapours’ call:

There’s a citadel of the mythical,
Above the rage of roaring air,
Where magic gestates in the skies
And your wings could take you there.

Though jet stream forces try to slice
Or thrust you from this realm,
And fog might fester through the flesh,
And lightning overwhelm,

You could launch a bold trajectory
Above those fearsome forms
To a place where all the world can seem
So silent down below.

Frost forces fresh perspectives when
It screeches through your throat,
But climb we must against its gusts
To safe and sagely float.

Your fingers are still figuring out
What firmament to hold,
Though you’d thought their forms inflexible,
Loathe ever to let go,

We cannot forecast coming winds,
They do not shift by shades.
But trust in the timeless courage
With which airborne bones are made.

To ever seek out the celestial
You must forget the earthly cold
Think how chilling that wide space must feel
Between those orbs of gold.

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