Like the silver silk of a dandelion's crest,
How many seeds ache to flee the nest?
To drift on the whim of a wandering breeze,
And wake in a garden of distant ease.
But the heart of the seed is heavy and deep,
A burden of mass that the wind cannot sweep.
Where wings should unfurl, the gravity clings,
Stilling the spirit before it takes wings.
Are we not the same in our tethered design?
With souls built for soaring, yet destined to pine.
For though our desires may reach for the stars,
The weight of our world is the cage and the bars
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