Empty Arms
There was a heart where your stain took residence,
it no longer beats but it sure is shiny.
I’ve tried every which way to fly on these broken, rage-filled wings,
not into your arms, but your entire, wretched being.
Crashing like a parakeet into a mountainside,
nothing left to identify, not a feather or drop of blood to clean.
The sun can hide many things and burn false promises,
the distance between the ground and mountaintop expands with each collision.
On crutches and guile I limp away again,
not learning another lesson.
As the moon slowly appears and the day comes to a close,
you can count on me running away from every right thought daring to come my way.
The day will arrive when I simply can no longer fly,
and that will be ok.
I’ll simply write these words until you bleed my thoughts.
