O warmth of sun on my face
O breath of wind through my hair
O wings, that carry me through the bluest plane
That spread white against the sky
Oh, oh
O melting wax that sears my spine
O rush of wind
O Icarus
O Sun
O blackness
O death
Flight is for the swans, and I am a rat. How foolish, how naive. Back to my hole I scurry, head down. For a moment, I felt like I belonged. But their wings ar tethered to their spines, and mine, only pathetic imitations. And so I plummet.
YOU ARE READING
inaurata lingua
Poetrybook two. stars pour from a golden mouth ink drips from a bleeding tongue
