WINGLESS





The shadows are creeping up the wall.
Death dances in the dying flames, mocking.
Broken mirrors dulled and grey
where fragments of our lives
are trapped, wriggling like
worms in a rusty can.

Is there hope yet?
Where can we look?
Are we permanently crippled?
Once I tried to fly...

Wingless, weary, numb with
trauma, a haze hangs over our heads
and no wind blows.



7.V.83

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