Saturday, October 14, 2006
Broken
A fallen bird hops alone on the shore
With broken wing. She will fly no more.
Where once the angels stooped to mend,
They have turned their backs. They will not bend.
Poor thing, set low, seeks a dry abode;
A sheltering rock to lighten her load.
But, which foul deed thus turned the bird?
A devious scheme or an unkept word?
Did she, then, not help a friend in need?
Did she cause a fellow heart to bleed?
Was her journey through the clouds in vain?
Did she only soar for personal gain?
But, no, not of this dread list is found
The thing that brought her to the ground.
Her sin lies not in outward lack,
Nor vanities dressed all in black.
No, she is banished to this sandy shelf,
For lo, she did not love herself.
With broken wing. She will fly no more.
Where once the angels stooped to mend,
They have turned their backs. They will not bend.
Poor thing, set low, seeks a dry abode;
A sheltering rock to lighten her load.
But, which foul deed thus turned the bird?
A devious scheme or an unkept word?
Did she, then, not help a friend in need?
Did she cause a fellow heart to bleed?
Was her journey through the clouds in vain?
Did she only soar for personal gain?
But, no, not of this dread list is found
The thing that brought her to the ground.
Her sin lies not in outward lack,
Nor vanities dressed all in black.
No, she is banished to this sandy shelf,
For lo, she did not love herself.
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Yes, in one of my moments of blackness and melancholy...
Self-searching seems to be my thing nowadays.
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Self-searching seems to be my thing nowadays.
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