Without my wings
I feel so little, small
and the sky’s grim
so grim, gray and dim
like my memories of freedom
when I knew how to fly
roaming clouds and stars alike
plowing fields of summer wine
and seeing the unseeable
the blue in the darkness
the oceans in the deserts
shrouded in an icy sadness.
The air is winter
blindness is my eyes.
Hope is gone.
The rain is cold.
The sun is weak.
The day is bleak.
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