Too High to Land
Green shadows fly high above the vast distance.
The snow clothes the lenses of winter’s sight.
Reaching for dawn, the night song’s resistance
cries to the moon in its desperate plight.
I wait in the mist for love to come,
yet in my strength, I cannot stand.
My frailty bared, what will I become
now that I have flown too high to land?
~
Does the end need more imagery?
