My feet tease the path
as I dare to venture
deeper into my own
simple pleasures.

Beckoning to the trees
to sing the melodies
of our tired ancestors
as the wind flows through their leaves
like fingers over a harp's strings.

The hawk dances with the shadows,
daring the sun's rays to cut in,
hand outstretched, shinning and asking
may I have this dance?

The owls hoot the language
of muzzled tribes.
Low and deep,
filling the forest with the vibrations
of forgotten souls.

And as the world calls,
the armadillo crosses my path.
It follows me to the ledge.
It offers me it's armor
and pushes me off the edge.

My black cocoon
embraces my sorrows,
shielding me from the views
of an angry truth.

How I wish
I could break free
and learn to use my wings,
but the comfort
of a prison built by my own hands
is more solid and reassuring
than open skies.

I fear freedom
because I have never known it.

Our twisted bodies
collided into one another,
like bits of angry Earth
reaching for the horizon.
And beneath our bed of dirt
we rose like mountains.
Deprived of oxygen,
but still
I could not help

but to dance upon your peaks.

And when the sun had set
the coolness embraced
her frolicking silhouette.
And it was here,
buried in the darkness of her mind
that she saw the stars
for the first time.

I am the red flag
sprawled across your trembling limbs
when the world reminds you
that winter is also a season.

I am a reminder
that perfection exist
only in flawed visions
of how we see others
but refuse to see ourselves.

I'm the one you vent about
but refuse to listen to
because red flags
aren't viewed as imperfections
but as infractions;
Violations of laws
that neither of us agreed to
but live by.

Do you not see your own flags
boldly waving in the wind?
The way I stumble
beneath your force
or cringe
beneath your voice.

Do you talk about the way your flag
clings to it's pole?
Refusing to be pulled down?
Refusing to be burned?

I am like the Earth.
I mold easily
so that you may enjoy the fruits of my soil
and live upon my flaking surface.
But my love,
you are killing me with all you take
and the little in which
you are willing to give
so that we both may live.

She hung on to the edge
afraid to fall
back into the same routine
of plucking petals
and mending broken things.

Her wings, a mess
feathers meshed with hate and lies
from past lovers that scrutinized
the way she drew the skies
with her silhouette
ensuring she would never find
the will to rise or ever fly.

Her wings.