:: Flightless ::

My boredom is becoming choleric. I'm a plethora of discordant poetry, but it doesn't soothe, doesn't gratify, doesn't dull me into peace. My dissatisfaction is a poker-faced ellipsis. I feel dead. My cubicle is a Venus deathtrap, chafing, sucking; I'm pushed into a well-paying necrosis. A noble death, because of my various responsibilities? Or a knowing euthanasia, a gamble that will eventually bankrupt my passion for writing?

***

Wings

I am a low-flung sparrow,
Wings skimming ground:
My song is clipped and sallow,
My tune, a blood-butchered sound.

My sky has been swallowed,
Cloudburst and stardust wane;
My flight is closely followed,
My spirit deftly slain.

I am a blind-eyed eagle,
Wings scrapping rock:
My screech a mocking giggle,
My strength, a whip of lightning shock.

My sky has been muted,
Cloudburst and stardust wane:
My flight is unjustly disputed,
My spirit deftly slain.

I am a bowl-legged crow,
Wings skidding friction:
My instinct is splintered, slow,
My candor is plastic fiction.

My sky has been halted,
Cloudburst and stardust wane:
My flight is fiercely assaulted,
My spirit deftly slain.

***

Opened Skin

I scratch my skin open
For you.
We watch the crimsom tide,
Seep like voices in an agora
Into a rust-coloured cresendo.

You tear your skin open
For her.
We watch the scarlet fire,
Surge like soldiers in a war,
Into a death-fractured anthem.

We split our skin open
For us.
We watch the carmine poison,
Sink like meteors in a cosmic coma,
Into a torch-bright refrain.

***

I feel the need to apologise - for my weak, pretentious poetry, and my heinous indifference at my protected routines. This is my Icarus complex. This is my desire to scorch off a piece of the sun, my voracity to wax my wings for the surrender of a piece of the sky - my sky! - but this will also be my undoing, my eulogy, my categorical plunge into sea.

Nature is unkind, and nature has no regard for the immortal longings of the grinning fools licking dust off the feet of languid gods.