Of Great Wings (And Perfect Hands With Glinting Rings)

Cynical

Smaller cuts sting to hurt you most
because blood doesn't drip.
Leaves fall from the shivering trees
to die for an autumn you wake to.

And those trees,
they become bare for you,
with that warning,
comes a swath of cold,
like a bitter taste in your mouth,
medicine that makes you shiver.
To make you better for a while
so you can trudge straight through the snow,
though your fingers are numb.

Since you can't feel the air
the sting from the smaller cut
doesn't hurt as much
as you'd expect it to even with touch.
When you sleep you wake up drowsy,
since your mind is full of explosions of colors.
You let yourself think,
though your body and consciousness
are screaming at you to rest for the night.

You dread the morning 
because you have not slept,
your bones are hurting
even if you lived yesterday.
You are not wise.
You are young.

Fresh snow and newly tied laces,
gauze against early wounds,
a new day to live with your eyes open
to the world that lives again, and over
the scaling mountain you walk
to find yourself,
to let the world find you,
because wounds are made to be art,
just as words are meant to sting
as a tiny cut that hurts worse than
the silvery sword that tears the stitches
of your newly sewn heart.