• There's an empty shell, a broken wing,
    And one fragile last reminding glimpse of a weathered dusk
    Peering in through the cracks that engulf my graceless, frail body
    And hold me captive...

    I was once like those who wander,
    And I'd admit to even less,
    Though my recent days have been puerilely spent
    Seeking the world in such a way that even to me makes no sense.
    But how does one move about when pain is so immense?

    It's happening again,
    The cracks weaving across my translucent skin
    Marking me.
    I can feel it, my blood pulsing thin.

    We are all frail,
    With moments, like cracks knitting across our flesh
    Only with the hope of a weathered dusk can we prevail...
    But we are, ultimately, graceless,
    And with one wing we will fall,
    Transforming into the shell inwhich we crawl,
    hide, and confide in so that we, too, can escape our shame.

    And all I can see now is a broken wing,
    That I sheeplishly hold up in hopes of blocking the stark, burning light.
    I see my eyelids moving as I blink dazily into the contrast between dark
    And the fragments of inescapeable cracks that now hold
    Everything.