Cravings that can’t be sated,
Itches that can’t be scratched.
Demanding the bloom of bliss
The blossoming at the core
Why is it a crime to reach for what you want?
Voicing objections of motive:
“For thou art pure and pristine”
But “thees” and “thous” and “thines” mean nothing now!
They ring empty; hollow like a fresh grave below my feet.
An ideal still believed, but only practiced in song and tale.
White feathers have been dipped in ink;
They glow in the sun
All the while hiding the stains
The crooked veins injecting darkness into the plumes
What is worse: crafting the lie or believing it?
Each night, a feather darkened.
Each morning, one lost.
Two souls cracked
One with a vision-swimming, head-spinning, 2-plus-2-is-sky mentality
Struggling to stand, to put one foot in front of the other, to keep eyes open
The other in a life raft attached to fading memories of an extinct past
Struggling to breathe, to smile, to continue living
They took advantage of each other’s
Yet still the itch cannot be scratched,
Still the feathers continue to darken
To a color colder and more isolated than the midnight sky.
One question still remains:
If we were both victims,
Which one of us is to blame?