My mother is made of stardust,

Glimmering and ethereal

In a way that no other human has ever been.

She is as formless and free-willed

As the sun across the water;

Slave to none but herself

And the swell of the tide.

My father is made of bedrock,

Strong and steadfast

In a way that all humans wish to be.

He is as constant and consistent

As the sun in every season;

Slave to none but himself

And the wear of time.

I am made of the both of them;

Trapped within a vessel that craves for freedom

In the same breath that it begs for stability.

My flesh longs the warmth of a hearth

While my soul yearns for the chill of flight.

Irrepressible self-expression

Bound by relentless self-control.

I find my escape through the written word.

Poetry; my silent song.

Where the earth is nurtured by structure,

Where the air fills me with peace.

Where the fire burns from my passions,

Where the water slakes my thirst.

I write in the rhythm of my heart

And speak with the voice of my soul.

I taste the words with every breath

And feel the weight of them within my bones.

I am the whole made of two halves,

Fragile glass and thundering storm,

Joining in a maelstrom that is mine

And mine alone.