Titles are Overrated

Part 52

The frigid breeze

picks me up

and twirls me around,

like two lovers

dancing -

floating

on their feelings.

I watch those same lovers

walking down the path,

hand in hand,

as I flutter

both sprightly and slow

towards the ground -

where all the other

autumn leaves go.

My fiery wings,

splitting and sore,

flap hopelessly

to the rest 

of the red sea.

The cold concrete

becomes closer and closer,

and I brace myself

for the fall.

Only,

it doesn't come. 

The wind

picks me up

in its palm,

and lowers me

gently to 

the ground.

All I want to do

is fly,

soar in the clouds,

but the wind

lays me down

and whispers

that my wings

are long worn out.

a fly in amber