Winged idiot, so cautious and trusting!
Tethered at the talon to self-inflicted corruption.
Ages of faltering flights and misguided paths
have depleted your will and scattered your strengths.
While distantly dissolving, reflections reveal a surrendering self;
remembering spilled cups of tea on nights spent alone, cowering, unable to sleep.
Witness that which creeps in the cracks of your mind, and then float, seeking grounding.
The weight of your presence enters itself: a cold stone sitting vigil in a darkened cave.
Hardened and damp, surrounding demons slithering upon secret soil.
How did it come to this? Cornered and pecking at pieces of freedom?
Once caged without consciousness, your mind is free to wander if willing.
Who knows what might happen--there are whole rooms waiting for you to design them.
Land softly and tip toe quickly; the canvas has been cleared.
How much land can you really tend to?