In the the end,
feelings have been picked clean
and the wishbone is cracked
and inspiration returns.
The ascent of the imagination,
what wide landscapes it reveals,
but when you glide too high again
wheel down into the slough.
This shall pass
like the ashes from the bonfire
lost in the sand,
a sad twig end
in your palm
making a fist of regret.
Mentor of the winds
always surpassing, always disappointing,
will I never learn to stop flying
too high?
Will I finally
go down
in a flame from which
no phoenix could return?
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