Somehow, I’m weightless
and not for real
with exaggerated claims
of what’s mine.
Bent, turned, torn,
I’m not yet healed,
but how am I injured?
Wings that have never grown can’t be broken.
Burning in Sunday blues,
vomiting happiness like poison.
I’m still in Limbo,
in resembled darkness.
My wings grow,
stretch
beyond my flesh,
Pain is medicine.
The past has passed.
Former saviors have become mortal.
Torments I nourished starve.
But Sunday blues return:
happiness is just poison.
I’m still in Limbo.
16 December 1990
Age 21
1 response so far ↓
Fred Wemyss // November 12, 2008 at 11:44 pm
“Wings that have never grown can’t be broken.”
Good lines deserve repeating, so I’ve put that in this comment.