The Winged Mind
Why is it?
People cherish broken vases
Like they weep over
A lost love
Whither the lines that stay
Glaringly visible
After momentous patching.
Love is not loctite.
The soft sheen of care
Protects the storm inside
From eating up the innards
And the blanket of life.
Have we ever stopped?
To grasp that soft hand
Only to let it slip,
Hearing, “It’s not my fault…”
Like the rampant sweat of
An addict clinging to the
Paint splattered railing,
Akimbo to his end.
My feelings swirl within.
And
This angel lies asleep
But tossing, turning
For his wings are frozen
With the icy touch
From your
Sacred
Breath.
