A fall from grace.
A misstep of the tongue.
Is there a wound in my place?
Because to me, it stung.
There was a disregard,
A lack of care for the wind;
When I set aside my wings
And walked ahead blind.
When the wind blew,
I lost my stability.
There I fell askew,
Now aware of my disability.
Crushed against the ground,
I got up, looking for a way back.
My wings fell with me, I found.
They were tattered, torn, and black.
My wings, once whole, white and not black,
I brushed them off, cleaned them up,
And reattached them to my back.
When I tried to use them to fly,
I found that they wouldn\'t work.
I looked up at you in the sky,
Seemingly oblivious, a part of the framework.
As I stood upon the ground,
Collecting the feathers of my wings,
There was a revelation I found.
You, it seemed, held all the strings.
I may have fell, but your hands drip black.
You held my feathers in regard,
Some higher than others, before the crack.
Now you hold them, while my wings stay marred.
You took what struck your fancy,
And only offered neglect to the rest.
Let me and my wings rot without necromancy,
Brought us back only when you thought was best.
I ignored it at first; I didn\'t mind the dirt, the smell.
The way my wings slowly fell apart without your help.
But it is so much harder to ignore since I fell.
Since you ignored my apologies and cries for help.
You don\'t really care that I\'m stuck here.
You could help me back up, but you don\'t need me.
For me, your services are too much to volunteer.
I am a person of which you would rather be set free.
For me, it was a fall from grace.
To you, it was a misstep of the tongue.
I wish you would feel a wound in my place,
Because to me, opening my eyes really stung.