The lightness above us, heavy upon us

Light swirls above us, heavy above us, heavy upon us.

We question, we wonder aloud to the silence above us, upon us:

"Who am i?"

We whisper to the wind, the light, the darkness that shields the seekers in the midnight hour.

"Who am I?"

We scream, we yell, we cry. No answer from the chilled wind, fading light, and steady darkness that shields the speakers in the midnight hour.

We are alone to ponder the stained red question.

We see the light swirling above us, upon us, yet featherlike caressing our butter cream cheeks.

As children we skip and dance, for we are the light that swirls above us.

We run with radiant lightness through the emerald green fields, racing the clouds.

The bees whisper honeyed secrets in our young, naive ears.

Sprouting like the flowers in their beds of earth, we blossom into adolescence. 

The light grows heavier, the bees buzz grows fainter, the green grass is left to tickle our calves. 

We are young, naive. But we notice on another, and we love.

It's in the cool moments beneath the oak tree, book in hand where we yearn for adventures we will never have; we yearn for love and another's arms, eyes, sweet cherry caress.

Our sun kissed skin ignites under the heavy light of the sun.

Our first kiss, so instinctual, yet new. 

Everything seems to fade away in that one moment: the light above us, the wind, the bees and emerald green fields with the high grass and chasing clouds.

Our solitude fades, and we feel as one. Our previous fears dissolve into honeyed kisses--our newfound speech.

That's the first moment where we wished we would forget that question:

"Who am I?"

The days drift by heavy in light, chilled with the wind, dark as the darkness that shields the seekers in the midnight hour.

And as our skin ripens, we are fallen apples, bruised; our youthful lightness weighs heavier and heavier.

We no longer hear the bees buzz in our naive ears or skip and dance as the lightness above us.  

We no longer kiss under the oak tree.

We are bruised, heavy with the answer to the question that haunts us.

At last our rattled breath heaves a heavy sigh:

"Ah, death we are the lightness above us. We are heavy, yet as light as a feather."

So we dance and skip in fields of emerald green, chasing the clouds. 

Bees whisper honeyed secrets in our aged ears, and the grass tickles our feet.

We read of adventures never had, and love in another's sweet cherry caress.

We kiss the light, the wind, the darkness of the midnight hour.

So as we take our final breath, do not ask us that burdened question, "who am I?"

Fo we are the lightness above us, heavy yet as light as a feather.