Why would that beautiful winged bird run?
Unaware of its wings, or all its wisdom shun?

Could it not see the beautiful infinite sky?
Only crawl, walk and run, will it never fly?
Birds, small and big, in awe of its wings
Surprised, how happily it walks and sings
Its never too late to start, wiser birds say
'To move on ground is a child's play
God blessed you with wings to fly,
Running makes your dear ones shy.'

The bird never seemed to pay heed
Will tree never grow out of the seed?
Grounded the bird practised to live,
He couldn't fly, he was forced to believe
Inspiring thoughts and it did take an airy jump
Far from a flight, it was a little ****
Afraid to fall, the bird never flew
And slowly, was left out of its crew
When you fly, your wings are put to test
On ground, it could afford to rest

Were those wings to go in vain?
Or fooled, to quit the sky to choose plain?
Why would that beautiful winged bird run?
Being unaware, or all its wisdom shun?

She sits and stands, dances and spins.
Laughs a bit and then cries the saddest tear,
no fear in her eyes, a puzzle unsolvable.
And she knows she is capable of anything,
she can do magic and pull any string.
Sometimes a bit empty, in her thoughts she would sit,
every bit of her skin hot and wet, on the edge of the world.
Her glance deceives without you knowing,
her eyes going far while she disappears
to some other loves, never fully happy
curiously lost, those dark and wild things...
and she can stare at clouds for hours,
at rain, black bird's wings...
And then she slips out my hands,
once strong and now weak as spiderweb.
And she sings, what is life but a dream, deception?
Then I admire her, and want her for myself
to hold on to her for another moment.
And as the sunset watches us, I know
I am the one being left without her, alone.
As she seduces, as she chants and sings,
she is my maiden, my God, the black bird's wings.

It seems this week has taken to its own will
chased me down the hill into the prairie as it came close
to lunchtime
–the starving lads crying–
the whetstone ready
its hands skinning my lips,
for once I am glad
there are no feathers
anywhere close to my mouth
–at least I can keep my wings

I molded darkness into my throne
and now I reap the death
of another angel
crashing with her beautiful broken wings