12 Degrees & Skiving

what began as year-long challenge has become perpetual until further notice

Wings

our wings
seared to the quill
like the dream sparrow
i cupped fast
pinned to hope
was never there

flight it is not
drops of wax
gone by morning

and who could have said it?
that in holding hands
we’re letting go

here i am, older
accipitrine
arrowing forward
into cooling dawns

wingprocessblack-e1554285530274.jpg

Tell me wotcha reckon

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This entry was posted on April 3, 2017 by in Poetry.

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