(This is an old poem I played with and reworked a little. I‘m more fond of this version than the original. I can‘t remember for sure if it seemed this way at the time, but in retrospect it seems like the other one – among other writings at the time – was written to almost exorcise and process everything. I think it‘s funny how I’ve come to use writing as a means of gradually embracing some of my experiences like that. This version, in contrast, kind of tells a story. And really it‘s not that different, but for me the tweaks I made changed the whole feel of it.)
He soars, falls, rots,
He prepares to Rise.
Loving, I aimed for sky.
There’s a need to connect, to have it all, for real.
There’s barriers and obstacles for his will to plow,
But a dream is just beyond them,
If only he can get to it. Somehow…
Eventually a way is to bring it to life is found,
And the way itself euphoric, profound.
With short, newfound wings he’s almost flying now,
Going down will mean pain, a fiery descent.
When he wearies he knows he’ll fall, but he’s never gonna bow.
He’s reaching for the stars until he is spent.
Tired, I hit hard.
The pieces of himself are all but gone,
Nothing left to give, ’cause finally he’s spent.
And not not even love can save him or his wings now.
This isn’t what he wanted, it isn’t what he meant.
She says she didn’t know, but he doesn’t see how,
The only thing he seems have to left… is astonishment.
Perhaps not gone after all, for there’s something…
A spark of complete confusion at the truths she’s bent.
Spiteful, I got up.
The spark is all he needed for ressurection,
That one jagged, brutal shard of heart,
One that became a rage, a need to dole out punishment.
He had felt hopeless ’till now,
Rotting under hell, starting to ferment.
But to stay this low he just can’t allow,
And the time has come for violent ascent.
Hateful, I grew wings once more.