Air Melancholia

I am poor company these days
Now knowing what I know
Of thought as mere sub-cranial glow
That faintly comes and rarely stays
And more rarely gives a solace here
Or a sorely needed flair
For elegance beyond compare,

As reverence for the yesteryear
Which held that which we held so dear;

No more than a bird holds flight
Forevermore in lunar light
When thoughts aglow make it all too clear
That every bird must land and die
And relinquish its poor avian soul,
Like Major Tom to ground control...
To teach much younger birds to fly.