My God. Look at these tattered wings. Broken, bruised, and dirty. It's no wonder I so rarely spread them anymore. I hardly show them to anyone these days. You were a strange exception. I remember when you let your hair down and I first took them out. Hair falls so easily doesn't it?
Hidden under my leather jacket I walk the icy streets, the vibrations of broken flight all around me. Wandering headlights pierce the frigid darkness. Kneeling by a patch of melted ice I see my reflection in the stagnant pool. I can't help but smile as I walk away from another road to nowhere.
I put more distance between myself and the courtly feast that stays behind. Eating, dancing and revelry while thirst the fools who do not join them. Young and lustful it all taste so fresh and novel. The empty cups of worthless charms. The falls into transparent arms. They crucify the sparrow's name and ride the storm to feel the rain. Burn the journal. Tear the page. Consume the lies. Truth is rage.
I leave only my shell behind. Folded hands over quiet chest. Lay the jester down to rest. Save my words if you will. Quote them at the feast, for the young are blind and the old are meek. Leave the ashes and smash the urn. The jackals spit, so take your turn. Run along and party well. Save my words and leave the shell.
Oh, feast of fools. So fun to wallow in the mire and feed from the trough. The dog returns to its vomit. Like glowsticks at a rave, the false light dances as the senses feast in the darkness, grabbing for something real when all is merely designed to tantalize in temporary illusion. But that's what they all came for.
I cross the empty parking lot to a lone car under a flickering streetlamp. Opening the door, I take off my leather jacket, stretch my wings and get in. Radio on, GPS set, I pull out onto the open road that lies ahead.
