Dead wings, dead wings, to fall
is to be reborn out of bright
solitude and dropped into the sea
The memory of the earth is a weight
of waves and islands; in my blood and
in my bones, the weight of my
incarnations is stronger than my will
to be unique, it breaks me, destroys me
reminding me always of my place.
I am the mother of lost souls and
prisoner to my faults, my beauty and
to my will; transparently walled, my
cells of life delivered by innocent death
spoiled by joy before the open grave
of the earth, the sea and the air and
so docile, docile like a stone, an angel
or a even a star; to fall is to be reborn
drawn into the deepest of deaths
into birth and to life, it is all the same
sleep, a unique grace which bends the
paths of heaven to the curve of the earth;
Even my highest desire is subservient
to the peace of love which governs
storms, wars and the birth of wings
©Ionwhite

Very nice. Sort of like the situation of a Mother Confessor in Terry Goodkind’s Sword of Truth series. Yours is better written.
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Thanks Rob, what a great comparison.
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