My wings.
Bloody.
As things ripped apart always are.
Jagged edges.
From a serrated knife.
Where my dreams may fall and shatter.
From today
I too shall tread the earth.
Mortal. Ordinary.

Moonlit dreams and first views of sunrise
You were wise, Oscar
Wise, to know that dreamers
who dream by moonlight
are forever punished
by being the first to view glaring sunlight.

My wings
Yours
Take them
Burn them
Smear yourself in the victory ash
But know this
I dream with my soul
I dream with my heart
And that
No knife can touch.
Not even yours.
My soul soars forever more
Perfect
Untouchable

My only consolation
The knife that ripped was mine
I ripped the wings from my heart
Bloodied bruised and broken
Not you.
For I know
Broken wings heal
And even angels fall

Musing

I may not need your approval.
But I do not deserve your hatred...