broken wings

The world is made of broken wings, dead birds and ruined angels. Rain spatters the afternoon, fog seeps through the morning. The sun shows up when it feels like it. Feathers shining like fresh ink, littering the wet green field. Flight only the measure of those who have fallen. Heaven mostly a story about finding a way back down.

The crow in the sky maps out this measure. Another name, another town. The street signs that pass by too quick to read. The street lights that flicker, then fade as the dawn unfolds. These streets that are written in riddles, these streets that are stitched into the scenes. The crows rise as the sun is settling. Their roost waiting just over the hills.

Tell me the story that waits outside the window. Tell me the story about the road that runs and runs. Wake me before the sun comes back. Wake me without unraveling these brittle dreams. There must be a way we can follow these reasons. There must be somewhere left where we can go. The road a river as black as the sky. This mourning another name for life.