Balanced on the grey razor skyline,
the sun is impetuous with licks of flame,
smoldering like old promises
on my paper, white as the bedroom walls.

The crow outside my window
watches me with eyes like ink.
A sparrow spirals against the glass window,
hits with a tiny thump
and falls. The crow barks a laugh.

The demarcations go down;
illusion and flight fuse.

Somewhere between pen and parchment,
I stall, stretch my wings
and find nothing beneath;
melted wax and
the gravity of truth -  
my pen will not bear that weight.