For its scars

A broken wing mends, but never takes flight for its scars.

Feathers of forgotten voyages now fill full the deep wells of darkness,

that fall straight down the sharp cliff ledges,

there on the edges, of beautiful stars.

My soul’s sand mugged and forever lost,

murdered by erosion, and buried in a foggy bog of shallow rooted moss.

An eerie sound is time,

as its winds howl through my minds lonely twisting dead wood and vines,

pealing back my bosom,

exposing the winter’s heart, of my frozen pantomime.

Broken wing mends,

but never takes flight again.