The muscles in my back have atrophied, <br />From shoulder blades to ell-five; <br />If ever I had wings <br />There is no vestige left. <br />I am stranded here, walking, <br />My progress often illusory, <br />Though my desires recall once circling <br />High above a wind-swept quarry <br />Of chiseled, sliced, comforting right angles <br />Flooded with rain water <br />And reflecting the deepest blue, <br />Gently brushed with white.<br /><br />Gary Witt<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/groundling/
