My wings aren’ t real.
They’re made with
cloth, feathers and beeswax.
They were only temporary
to escape life’s labyrinth’s.
But oh, i do so love the feeling
of the wind, how it sings
through my hair.
I’ve forgotten the world below
its challenges and lessons.
I go higher and higher,
the fierceness of the sun
drips hot wax upon my skin.
I fall like a bird with clamped wings,
through cloud and rain
and drop into the ocean,
tossing and turning in endless waves.
All that i avoided before me,
and i regret through my woe
that i didn’t wait for real wings
to grow.
Weighted by my insincerity
i sink
and drown in my grief.
Laura Berry (Napowrimo Day 30 – 2024)