212. Open Wings
As if ice were grating my skin, My feathers become a blanket, But the cold makes no contact. Is it safe to walk out of my den? No warmth despite fingers in my pocket. Constrained by futility as the light in me retracts. My wings chain-up my spirit like cryogen. How do I find the strength to unlock it? It's easier if I gave up the will to act. But I crashed headfirst to murder evidence of my sin. I asked Death if Hell and I would make a good fit. "Who said God judging was a genuine fact?"