We wake suddenly under a winter’s moon.
Bound in a sumptuous
waltz of failed fragility.
A walk past fields of lilies
and into the assassin’s bow.
Struck down in prideful lust
of the acknowledged pervasiveness of
human effort.
Becoming something, but
gazed and burdened we sit.
Chasing darkness through light.
A misaligned fortress.
A war of passion into a bed of shame.
And manifested through a broken
mirror, reflecting the flaws of
this world, and not of ours.
Parades of feathers pierce the skin
turning into another.
But we cannot fly.
Only be covered in it.
And by it.
