The Kite

A kite flies high with the wind, if there wasn't, down she goes. You hold on from one end, and the movement is unknown. She weaves indefinetly, and you follow as she flows. It's like watching a piece of art, aimlessly searching for a soul. At the height of it's purpose, the handler's one to probe. The attachment rate, set her free, or bring her home. The kite flies high with the wind, in which he swoops, sin, and win. For you cannot see him, temptation is the space between you, airily thin. The higher the kite, the more breeze slips through, watch her as she goes. The reeling rope unwinds upon time, is it new, how far will you go. If it's battered then it matters, cause she's the same, feelings unscathed by the blow. The kite flies high with the wind, if there wasn't, you should know.