6/6/19

I used to dream of wings, 
golden-brown and beautiful, strong 
enough to carry me high above 
the clouds to where the sun’s warmth
 could wash freely over my skin. 
I used to dream of freedom, of 
weightlessness, of the thrilled 
twist in the pit of your stomach when 
it is faced with an infinity of possibilities.

They broke, one day. 
They failed, and sun-warmed skin 
turned a blood crimson against the 
rotten earth. Feathers laid strewn, 
bone laid bare, body laid broken. 
But dreams heal, as wings do, with 
gentle touches and quiet words 
and soft, caring patience. One day,
 they will fly free again.

�" a.t.
6/6/19