Wings

these bones have grown old;

a keen wisom burns

brightly within them,

coursing, seeking

a new path

to follow.

no longer trapped

in brightly colored

crayon pictures

or decieved by candy

coated truths;

this is where reality

rears its ugly head

ready to be conquered.

eyes turned up to

the heavens,

inky fingers grip

a shooting star, as if

it's my last dying breath-

i plunge into the unknown,

the constellations and

mother's good wishes

my only guide.

it's time to trade

in these too small

butterfly wings

and release the inner

Phoenix;

let these newfound

wings fly

so that i may

one day taste the

Moon.