With feathers sewn to back, I fly,
the wind raising ridges of scars like mountains,
and upon it I am born aloft,
but I was born to die,
so the fall becomes inevitable,
and after it the winter, crystals forming in air.
They melt on my face, tears bereft of salt,
the water fresh, but dirty still,
because it touched the earth
my feet can't stand to walk upon.
But I am so heavy that I break the clouds,
and the sky refuses to have me.
The scales on my skin are not silvered enough
to swim the places in between.
I am neither fowl nor fish nor human being,
but I play at them all, half-hearted.
Maybe one day I will turn to stone,
so hard that nothing can touch me,
at peace the way that stones are:
things that exist but do not live,
unbothered by the fires of the world.

08/05/2013

Posted on 08/05/2013
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