A Winged Thing

Be with me
in all of my intricacies.
A stripped,
bare bones woman.
Standing, shivering.
Moaning as deep
as the wind
as it sings its eternal,
howling song.
Living humbly
on and on
as the ancient
world goes round.
It is difficult to keep
human feet on the ground.
Goes against instinct
to ascend, release.

Freedom is some sort
of winged thing.
Some sort of untamed,
urge-driven beast
that never even thinks
to see itself.
It cannot conceptualize
anything else,
but the moment
that lies out before it.
It knows no torment.
No torture
of seconds and hours —
iron hands that tick
their meaningless power
upon even the most
meaningful of lives.
Limiting and frightening
our physical minds
into rejecting
their very own flesh.

In the past, I wretched
upon such fears at night.
Turned to the solace
of other realms
that I beheld
behind my eyes.
So desperately,
endlessly
did I consciously try
to keep both feet
here upon the earth —
feeling the rough dust
deep within my lungs
as I learned to cherish
the human hurts.
I tried to ignore
the seductive, siren call
of those ageless,
tenacious depths
that would ultimately
prove false
my mortal pretending
that there truly is
a death.

Yet I will always
feel and sense
that limitless,
winged thing —
gliding utterly free
in all of its peace.
Aloof eyes blind
in its divinity
as it stares off
indifferently
into the ceaseless
expanse of what
has forever been.
Knows not the feel
of the ground.
Knows not the sound
of its wings.

By Jamadhi Verise, ©2020
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