Broken Wings
Wanting wings to spread them and fly
tattered wings grace my back,
with each beat they become more broken,
every day decays them further.
Rotten things cannot fly says the preacher
they say the dead cannot ever do more,
but they know not the truth
they know not of stalking shadow.
Decaying wings, olden and grey
spread the shadow, spread the light
it sends them all away
a shield so frail and thin, but there nontheless.
The tears shed cast around an aura
most see only fail and fear,
but looking close shows the truth to the matter
it shows the strength, of the decaying and dead.
Judge thy no more, psuedo one
until you have tried to spread your wings,
for you they are no longer there
for you need them not....
