like a dream resurfacing
from the layers of my memory
you come back to me
bathed in glory
your eyes telling a thousand stories

your wings
once they were broken
today they have unfurled
silky to the touch, it is almost sudden
how they glimmer without being risen

your majesty
it takes the air out of my lungs
i almost collapse into nothing
but soon find myself in your wings, tucked
the stars in your eyes, songs to be sung

the world cowers
as it does not deserve you
nor can it ever repay what you have given
us mortal humans, we wish to reach you
but we fail to see the things that make you

I’ve toyed with fight or flight,
Had it freeze me in a nitrogen bath.
At the very innocuous sight of a face.
But the face just denoted
The crushing fear, that swallows me whole.
So I’m a runner and
I’ll hide in anything, including a frozen mind.
If I could I’d fight
One of these days I will fight.
But, battles of the self, need to be chosen carefully.
So I’ll just keep toying with flight
Until I’m sure that fight won’t end me

Flight
When things get tough
My first instinct is to run.
Run away for a while,
Because I am weak.
I can't handle the life I was given
Or the cards that were played.
Fight
My mind is not calm,
And my temper is short.
I have this tendancy of blowing up
When I just need to take a breath.
Terrible wife, imperfect mother,
Is there anything I'm good at?
I'm hardly adequate.

I put on my black lace dress
because I am going out tonight
to enjoy the nightlife.

Lingering on the stairs
I ponder the night's
future possibilities.

My stomach starts churning
never experienced this feeling,
whether it be anticipation or reluctance.

The stairs seem so steep
as I climb the tallest
industrial mountain.

Bare feet are clammy
against the chilled tiles
of the terrain.

The breeze catches in
my lungs and I choke
on the sudden inhalation.

Stars are so much more
brighter from this height,
many different colors.

On the edge,
I'm ready to spread
my wings and soar.

My feet leave the sturdy surface
for the sanctity
of the skies.

Spreading my wings
needing the air
to cradle me.

Realization hits me
like the concrete,
these plucked wings can't help me.

Oh little bird with such sweet sound,
Why do you sit upon the ground,
When you could soar and flit and flutter,
And get away from all the clutter,
Which threatens peace and clouds the mind,
And deafens ears and makes eyes blind?

I hear you singing from your tree.
Your music seems to beckon me.
To fly would be a lovely thing,
To soar above on feathered wings,
To escape from that which plagues me so,
And chuckle at the ground below.

Alas, dear bird, it cannot be,
For I am bound by Gravity.

before the shutter of sentience
and we fall at the foot of the sun,
there are many risings.

let us not, then, shirk
our confession or our convalescence
in hoods of harrowing;

in consignments of death.

for crossèd ashes will surely
give rise the phoenix again
and most high flight.

Le jour où mon père est mort
I suppose I did a little, too.
Le jour où mon père est parti
A part of me left as well.
Mon père, il ne vouloi pas partir,
Mais ici nous sont,
Trois plutôt que quatre.
Le jour où mon père est mort,
Une l’oiseau a volé dans une fenêtre.
Il frappé une fenêtre.
Mon père guéri l'oiseau
Before his soul left the earth.
Et il a volé.