Hurry now, lest the sun melt your wings
except we aren’t there yet
& it’s always night with us,
& your wings are fine
your treatment of others… that’s melted & disfigured at best;
”hurry now, lest others may notice your treatment of them is melted & disfigured” doesn’t have the same rhythm
the rhythm of you
one melody that effortlessly harmonized
is no longer the same either
i wouldn’t say melted, no, but the night fell away & the morning sun illuminated two decrepit wings… skeletons, of old driftwood, shapes reminiscent of a long-ago forgotten fairy doll on the grassy banks of a hidden pond,
but the topic at hand:
your wings were an impressive facade
your rhythm garbled through alcohol
you’ve always swooped back as you pleased
enough that what would i have to lose entertaining you; nothing to gain with a guaranteed disappearance: loss
flying back—always just as I’ve turned my back
sometimes i wonder if you’ve ever truly flown
you never hurry to the sun
you’ll never see how beautiful your wings could be
with the craftsmanship you’ve picked up as you hide away
anyway
-hurry now, how much of you was every even here?
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