if I dream you
just right
you will have magnificent wings
with which to fly
but how
can I let myself
release you
scissors
or shears
I must stretch
your so-beautiful
white wings
it is your remiges
I must cut
those snow feathers
that I dreamed
to keep you close
my darling one
~
.
.
.
.
you are not
in any way
useful
you are not
beautiful
any more
poor crippled thing
there is no place now
for you
in my imaginings
once
I thought you
the height
of all my grace
elegance and poise
I said you
I spoke your name
in my mind
underneath my breath
you fired my soul
you were my light
but now you are
just
here
you do not soar
you do not fly
I look
but cannot see you
as once you were
I know I know
I know
it was me
who cut your wings
I know
that it was me
who tied you to the ground
but
what of that
I did what I must do
and now
I will
again
what choice
have I
it is my nature
~