With wings at rest longer than its tail
My hobby waits. Great bird of creation,
Where do you come from? As I sit and mull
You take flight to and from places I may
Never know,
Where are you taking me,
Great spirit on high, far, farther-ring with light
And the wind, which streams then to delirium
Heights? I am bled and I am torn. Must I
Suffer in my soaring? Your clutch, tings
The sky, pierce the cloud, my hobby hovers,
I dream of coronations, talons to my head—
A crown of thorns.
Jul 28, 2012
Jul 28, 2012 at 4:13 PM UTC
With wings at rest longer than its tail
My hobby waits. Great bird of creation,
Where do you come from? As I sit and mull
You take flight to and from places I may
Never know,
Where are you taking me,
Great spirit on high, far, farther-ring with light
And the wind, which streams then to delirium
Heights? I am bled and I am torn. Must I
Suffer in my soaring? Your clutch, tings
The sky, pierce the cloud, my hobby hovers,
I dream of coronations, talons to my head—
A crown of thorns.
