Oh! wingèd one, whose flight it is the storm,
Come from your hiding place, come see the moon.
Our hands outstretched, our palms rusty and torn.
The road ahead with roots it has been hewn.
A tattered page, yet dipped in lucid blue.
A pulse of life, a pitch into the air,
The wailing sky, a stain of lurid hue,
A haunting past. Ahead seems crisp and fair,
But fate stands in our way, its web of thread
That tangles ‘round my legs, our wings, your spine.
And to the ground we fall, this dirt our bed;
To cut the cord, accept you’ll ne’er be mine.
That thing of beauty from a shell of stone -
Burns bright, but destiny - does die alone.
Written by James Doyle
Original image by Annabelle Shipton