not all birds winter in the south some of us are flightless moribund and exhausted some of us are accidents car crash victims veterans of unhappy wars long since wounded and purple hearted they say having flown you’ll forever walk the street with your eyes on the sky for there you have been and long to return not to reap or sow but to soar without constraint beyond imagination
I have wounds hidden scars but
all my surfaces such as they
are present spotlessly clean at least to the naked eye but I’m filthy by decent human standards and my wings of wax drenched in lust fucked up and sorry have failed me in the hour of my disillusionment forever fixed in space in the moment of crashing I am leaden now and planted in the soil of my woeful discontent
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