All About Wings

Waiting to be born,
the bird thrust wings
against its glass-less window.

On such an occasion,
everything,everywhere is bone.

The idea of air, a sky
without ceiling,

the body unraveling
out of its skin,

the wall-less room
of eternity somehow
never completely
defines us.

Wings. It is all about wings.

And space.

The narrow space
between the bones,
between the heart,

the unfinished song,
the unwritten word,
the unchartered flight-

that small hole

in the fabric of night.

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