A Bird Has Its Wings

the lame beggar sits in scum living for a miracle he has not yet begun to walk to stand to become a bird has its wings to scatter to see to sing in a different tree a rose has its pigment, its august life's blood, the rose catches eyes and we ignore the mud. I have these words that nag and gnash my wrists telling me to write, telling me to live. and I want to, really, I want someone to hear the heartbeat that pulses as at the ink they peer. these thoughts are so loud that I cannot hear my mouth so I obey the call I spill myself out the light and heavy footprints a soul does mar words that were sent de profundis, quod sum. And I fly on wings of a writ for I do not have wings of my own, and I am the beggar that sits.