Answer:
I can be entertaining until you realize some pieces have been lost.
I have a foot but no leg. What am I?
Cloud is my mother, wind is my father. What am I?
Deep, deep, do they go. Spreading out as they go. Never needing any air. They are sometimes as fine as hair.
Searing 'cross the pitch-black skies I scream in celebration Yet moments later my outburst through I am naught but imagination.
What gets broken if itβs not kept?