The Molting

 

Fluttering wings splashes light

painted amongst cicada hums

Thy fingers intertwined in roots

Yet drawn to graves of lapsed youth

Twas a guardian of child

Twas a shield of dreams

whispering a song of feat

ringing in our empty daydreams

 

But as age aged

thy fresh feathers now oiled

and scents of overdue destiny

to which trailed thee a creature

of the most honest nature

 

writhing despite thy breathing

crying despite thy living

a bundle of screams

replaced thy light tinkling

 

Sunburnt hands peel pale

suburbia eats our land

like a cancer to a child

and shines light upon thy mystic

nulling thy fabricated existence

 

They don’t want thee

they don’t need thee

they don’t need thy lies

but I do

 

For thou art an angel

who flies amongst the weak

who repairs our elder strife

dare say it's a waste of time?

 

But thee an angel who may cease

Goes to no heaven

No, no

A place that bares silence

A place that no man shall see

Nor breath

For it shall shred the souls

Of our sole possession

 

Doubts of thee

Tears slip into these pages

but art thou not

the ghost to memories,

a sunset who fades,

a wind that conquers land,

a land that is nothing without thee?

 

This poem is about: 
My family
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

Comments

Need to talk?

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741