motif, wings, empathy

His life was a notched motif on an ever dwindling cane
if the clouds should part at dawn, another would join
a blunt knife marking its faith to a gnarled predecessor
“You know not what you do!” he was heard to cry at the boy who took
and held his cane aloft in spoiled fun
his finger pointed to the sky, a parting cloud, a rising sun
a flash of light, a falling, glinting in its sleepy rays
tumbling feather from ancient wings
wings that have, and that day would, fly again,
to places unseen by you and I
by the boy who squinted, desired to know
what the man, since childhood, marked as memory
not so different from the one before him
a silhouette at vast height
limbs long, hands outstretched,
nails hooked and wanting
as out of shadow and into light it swept
towards eyes closed, and knees scraping unforgiving ground, while cane clattered
and hands met in prayer muttered
for when eyes did open
above him, floating, drifting, dreamlike vision
eyes that watched eternity
watched him like the second he would be
when upon his shoulders the boy did feel
with tightening grip, his body backwards dragged, by hands old and aged
soon reaching with palms open, heart beckoning, to a cane with notches glowing
crimson cuts on oaken flesh, pulse and bleed
tepid liquid flowing over knuckles holding natures curse aloft
“You know of what I am!” he was heard to cry,
at the angel who dared try take
who turned to flee, yet not before
a final glance at the boy who shook
against a man who ageless in their time at war
sought knowledge out of loneliness
an empathy such as this never known
born of forbidden knowledge
forever shared

3 thoughts on “motif, wings, empathy”

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