Wednesday, October 1, 2014

Depression Bones

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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