All I ever sought was freedom.
I aimed for successful soaring.
My wings could have withstood that damn chicago sun
...because the wrath of heat was beautiful and enticing.
I could have...
I would have...
...flown freebird.
Instead now, I face the wrath of time-keeping mirrors.
They show me what the risk is of being alive. They mark the moments of my failures and remind me what it looks and feels like to have crack in the surface.
And fractures in the mirror always show a severed head
off looking in the distance, for another mirror I suppose.
Hoping this is not the truth in my short-lived, caged, aged youth.
The kind of age that doesn't show on my eyes (just in them).
My heart dances on only crows feet but I'm gliding.
Looking for the wing
Listening to its whispers of all my responsibilities to find the answer to all my drifting-state politics.
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