but i don't tell you about the times i try
to think of my future
and all i see is the color black,
like shot out lightbulbs
or dark corners,
only pitch black.

i don't tell you about the times
i think of spreading my wings
and flying away
and my throat starts to close
and i can feel the hunter's watch ticking
away the minutes of my life,
the minutes until he lets the arrow fly.
piercing, through my heart,
my last descent a great crescendo to the grief and the joy.
the arrow doing the one thing i cannot:
to fly.

but i guess i'll wait in this purgatory
for a day
or a year
or whatever...