I did not light a candle

as long ago I became 

the flame and all wishes burned,

turned to ash from which there rose

a fine and feathered phoenix

that became a lonely cloud lost in a sea of white. 

Last night I drifted to sleep

singing myself "The Story"
and woke up with eyes blurry,
staring out into this fog
and seeing clearly today
down from the hope of a mountain moment, morning light.

Who am I really but a bird shot down
lying on the ground dreaming 'bout
how I dreamed about flying here with you?
And really isn't it just another day
face down, stiff as a board, like a plank
for a prisoner to walk upon in some dark dream?