Poetry: Junkyard Wings

The wind screeches its silken song,

and a chorus rises from the roots.

The morning mist wanders below,

as I am paralyzed and forced to choose.

The paths are shrouded in the damp mystery of dawn,

though it seems I’ve been searching for centuries.

Now the time has arrived–too soon, I fear–

when I must decide what to hold most dear.

I’ve been told of this moment for ages,

and always thought I’d know the way.

But once finally here I realize,

I never wanted to reach this day.

For each path leads to a cliff,

towering upon a mountaintop,

and after the top comes the fall

with no hope of return at all.

Perhaps I could whip up some wings,

and drown in the blue depths of the sky,

skating above the emerald sea of the trees,

feeling safe in never needing to know why.

But I know the one before me,

who flew with wax wings and tried

to taste the sweet freedom of flight,

so was soon betrayed by the light.

Maybe it’s best I choose a path blindly

and tumble into the sea,

though I’ll always remember that boy,

like me, forever yearning to be free.

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