Wings

Cut off my wings and throw them to the darkness. I do not need them anymore... What good is it to fly when you have nowhere to go?

The mind's eye has set a course for obscurity, thus leading them astray. What guidance could I give them. Blinded by the forsaken light of those delusions. Hath no one seen the dark side? Whilst we sit in sorrow, the blood still drips from the amble demon's tooth. Yet what good doth it do, when nothing can be seen?

Ramblings on walls of stone. Do you read them? I was able to once. Yes.

Duly noted.

Hath these wings met the end of their reign? Have thoes who followed my light, faded with it? Have I lost all I have worked for? Hath all been forgotten? I can no longer rest assured I was made for this. You had chose me to paint a path for them. Yet here I lay, in a pool of my blood, and a river of tears. Feathers stained red, strewn about the cold hollow ground. A trampled mess I am. A cold harsh inner hatred exposed to the world once more.

I am broken.

They do not detach. No matter the blade, the gash, the slice, they stay. Attached. Try as I may, I cannot cut them off... I do not deserve these wings. I do not deserve to be followed. I do not wish to be seen in light. How can someone like I, be accepted. I shall falter just as the great have faltered. Why do we try to rebuild all that is broken. Death is death. One must not drudge such things up. So why doth the world attempt to remain.

These wings will not budge. Nor will this light fade. My eyes have become transfixed on them. The inhabitants of the other side... have they been here long? Yes. Have they always been here? Yes. I have become apart of something rather complex, yet I feel at home here...

You shall not take these wings, I have learnt now, the meaning of them...
What good are wings when one has no where to go.
For inner sanctuary is a place you know.


Morgan Doowrah
©2009