Pick the bones on your shoulder
and brace against the sudden gust of wind
that obscures your denied melancholy,
igniting was harder than being put out and
being put out was harder than being ignited --
a small flame with stubborn embers

And breathing never hurt like this,
with knife-sharp stabs and clawing
that ripped open your healed wounds --
it was of memory, your wings were being cut short

But when you decided to finally open your eyes
and take in what destruction your life had come to,
your hands grasped out, reaching for thin air,
because something invisible and contrast
was the thing that would save you in the end --
because its your time to fly . . .