I am once more
the alien bird,
stuck in a cuckoo's nest.
Wings clipped,
belly filled with responsibilities.
Seeing the sky,
but unable to take flight.

Can I reinvent myself one more time?
Possibly. I am a believer of possibilities.
Shall I rise as the phoenix,
from the ashes of past choices?
Take the sky on wings
flaming with new decisions.
Shall I choose,
rebirth as empress of the sun?
Or will fate always decide my destiny,
to be the queen of rain?

I wanted infinite recognition.
The kind of power that is unquestioned.
Fused by desires running wild, uncontrollable and mad with jelousy.
I needed to see what havoc could be created by mere existence, and to choose by whim who to grant toxic grace of body, passion and darkness.
Can it all end in a final night of no survivors?
A patchwork design of scars and mutilation?
My question still remains.
Is there a hero to resurrect an angel monster born?
Turning a lesser god into salvaged humanity?

Even though I know,
that freedom comes with a price.
It is still freedom.

From you I only ask for two things.
To be the first to touch your heart and the last to hold it.

His graceful fingers softly brushed
over my thigh in a languid stroke,
sending a parade of shivers along. 
Slanting him a sideways glance, 
meeting blue sky experience
embedded in a roadmap of life weariness.
With a crooked smile and a raised
eyebrow he simply stated;
-Had we been born in the same era
I’d make **** sure these legs 
would never walk out on me.

The imprint of his hand stayed 
as a melancholic afterthought
long after I had wrapped up
the meeting and left for the airport.
Unfortunately the flight 
did not include time travel,
which has been a top priority
on my wish-list lately...

It’s like suddenly being sieged
by black water holding you down,
with one fist around your chest
and another shackling your rest.
So when you finally give in to suffocation.
Smothering screams of molestation.
Crows pecking your burning mind
while you crouch by the window,
waiting for dawn to rush in
and save the day.

Your door is bolted with iron locks
shutting out persistent, saintly knocks.
But your window on the seventh floor
knows the allure of breaking apart.
Letting you try unseelie wings:
freedom without heartstrings.
So why does that sobbing ghost,
pleading by your locked door,
still hold enough ectoplasm
to keep your body safe
but your mind insane?