And the base keeps running, running and running, running and...

Little Angel

The last wings on which I have flown
were torn from me in the night.

Although I fancied them my possession,
I know myself to be no angel.

Beautiful minx that you are, you smile
and try to tell me that walking isn't so bad.

But I have lived on the earth of man,
walked his fields and bleed his blood--
payment for the toll of many things.

My time there has taught me to look up
and take in the entirety of my sights.

While doing so is when I caught your blur,
soaring high quite near to me
with a freedom you deserve.

Ah, my darling little angel, your many appeals
are a problem for the weak soul--
your hair and its flow is an overture of the wind,
your skin and its glow is the hum of the sun,
the subtle curves of your body,
your crystal eyes and your delicate heart.

When I finally stumbled into your attention with purpose
You were cautious in your approach,
but were honest enough to be clear
that these were yours and to fly
requires more effort than people think.

But you were trusting in me and your first smile
elated me in a way that I could fuel those wings to beat
just as fast as my heart.

Even if I am destined to crash again,
please, darling, trust in me once more
to not fly away with this beautiful gift,
but instead to wrap us together inside
as we tread our way across these fields.

Let me not spend this great lesson of life
on some other earthbound soul.

Let me rejoice in you, my little angel
and all the things you have taught me.
The only wings on which I have flown
were torn from me that night.

I know them to be yours.