A pounding head. A swollen throat.
No room to feel the wind again.
A broken lung. A fevered dream,
which threatens me to wake... but when?
In lucid scapes, and eerie plains,
the squanderers all roam and cry.
I know their names, and I would call
to them, but we both know that's I.
I tell you true, to face this truth,
that all I do just fails to sing...
I want to fly. To ride the waves
of air upon my crimson wings.
I stand atop the mountains edge.
The world is laid out at my feet,
but... not stars, or love or such things
could ever make this soul complete.
I jump the ledge, and spread my arms.
Just how long can a man's death take?
The pits of hell, rise up to meet...
but then I go ahead and wake.
This sweaty skin. These sodden clothes.
No sense of shame for knights and kings.
I look into the mirrors gleam,
and see I still have both my wings.
©spilvenr
S