Of Great Wings (And Perfect Hands With Glinting Rings)

The Aftermath

The mud
that dries on your downy feathers,
of great wings,
and perfect hands with glinting rings,
is the same gold that lets you fly
when you get too tired.

You rest with the weight of the pressed world on your shoulders.
Even though your hands
are calloused from trust,
your refuse to let your metal filled heart rust.
So the seasons change to winter
and the stinging cold follows you around,
in pounding headaches and raindrops beating on the ground.

To breathe
is to listen to those drops glisten,
as they turn to crimson, thread pulled taut.
When the strand snaps,
failed to be caught:
your eyes, wide, shoot open,
waking up from a dream.

Listening to what's surrounded you,
with bandages wrapping hands trembling for found.
The ache of your gaping wounds
when you look down at your clothes,
the dried mud isn't there, it's your blood.
Torn or shredded is not for one to choose
when you catch your reflection in mirror of scratches,
all you see is the aftermath of the flood.

And echoing your frame is mutilated wings,
no one ever taught you to stop such things.
Eye meeting a stray feather reminds you of the aether.
Which with shoes bound to the ground
you're starting to forget when you were soaring,
bathed in the glory of the sunlight morning.
But now you're sobbing as a breath leaves your chest,
the wind is there to accompany you, wailing.

With fingers reaching towards the ashy airspace,
heart withered and shattered with grace,
scalding tears that trace your beautiful face,
you freeze for something and nothing at all.
your caving lungs and the fallen statue you are,
who is there left to stitch up your scars?

Only a letter.
With ink splattered on rough ivory paper for the better,
is left behind for futures to touch your tragedy
to remember you,
for you were in stone of grief stricken malady.