I lay to dream, and when I fall
black spindly wings unfurl from
their roots on my back.
They extend like spiders’ legs,
leather draping from the joints.
I fight the wind and it exhausts under me.
Frost glues itself to my inky wings,
ice sprouts from the leather fabric.
I peer too high,
and others fear for me.
They say my wings are a curse,
evil courses through the veins.
But I’m not evil…I’m still me.
The wings are merely an accessory,
they do not qualify me.
So I wear them, and will continue to do so, peering, leering,
down on others.
My point of view is much improved.
No comments:
Post a Comment