I keep my wings locked in a jar
So I can't use them when I inevitably fall.
Until their gentle iridescence decays
and they crumble away
when I inevitably lose my grip
on this tenuous reality,
and float aimlessly through life
like a snowflake
borne on a gentle breeze,
not knowing which way is up or down.

We are just
angels under the bell jar, eating each others’ wings.
Twin anomalies that annihilate each other-
Leaving behind the tiniest scraps of our existences
to be framed by a collector.
Devoid of context, tasting faintly of liminality.
Devoid of context
how easy it is to forget
my own purpose for existing.