Piloted on wings
Centered on springs.
She had leaped, more than once, from cliffs made of collapsed Earth,
Only for me, to see, what should not be, of this pain that had been birthed.
Joy cannot settle on her skin,
While I call to her, in unhealthy dins.
Where were we, once?
What were we, once?
The purest things?
The most fragile things?
We were strong
With icicles for legs,
And crystal for eyes,
And saw many visions, many futures, many faces,
In our faces.
She has leaped from the precipice,
As I have leveled her to the anguish.
What have I done, in the bitter gloom
Where I cannot control?
I am a beast, it seems,
Whose anger is untamed, by neither winds, nor the Earth
Where she crashes,
And I demand some trivial forgiveness.
The apples I hold.
They hold, within them, sin.
And I have consumed them whole,
Like the beast who cannot hold