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