Low Pressure

Ode to the winds of my yesterdays.

Carrying me into the future,

To where all winds calm.

Just air, traveling this stream,

Born from pressure.

Set on an expected path.

Due to breeze for mature.

But I miss the air

Of my cool, free-blowing past.

Pushing the clouds above,

Making limbs grind below.

Birds, perfect metaphor for freedom.

I will drift how I want.

Wherever this current takes me.

Sailing above those who blue,

Cooling as many as I can.