Standing at the edge of possibility,
where the cold, hard ground meets the sky
and the horizon refuses to hold us back any longer.

Unconstrained by the futility of gravity
conspiring against our wings;
we learned to fly by falling first, and falling well.

When the air grew thin, oxygen took the shape
of conviction, and we breathed it in
like we were born for altitude.

The fog of a war we didn't choose
faded beneath the trail of fire left in our wake,
and what burned away was never ours to carry.

What remained fell like ash from the heavens;
a silence blanketing the landscape
that held the shape of everything we'd finally said.

And in the night sky, when there
were no words left to weigh us down,
we became the light we'd been looking for.

The iridescent glow of one flame that refused
to be denied, burning not to prove it could—
but because that was its nature.

Like shooting stars and sun flares,
some things are born to light up the sky—
and some skies wait their whole existence to be lit.

And we? We ignite the path toward our Elysium,
leaving breadcrumbs of fire
for every soul still finding its wings.