Young Writers Society

Shatter; slivers of broken glass
the desperate sip from the ice cold flask
and we both knew this feeling- it just couldn’t last
because of the shattered mask of your past
and though of my story you never did ask
I came from the stars and the moon and the sky
and I find when I’m dying I finally fly.

We played with the shards and our fingers, they bled-
Onto the cards where our fates, they were read
and you were your own and unto yourself –
so my feelings were locked away on a shelf
that was dusty and worn from years of disuse
and my heart dangled from its thrice folded noose
between the cage of my ribs and the pulse of my blood
and the dry of the tide and the song of the flood
and the beauty in chaos and the stars in the sky
and only when I’m dying do I finally fly.

We shout in vain at the man on the moon
our hysteria harmony to a sweet little tune
of death and despair and the pain here on earth
while we wait and we wish for our first second birth
but there’s no solace to be found in a man in the sky
yet still when I’m dying, I finally fly.

I fly, I fly- I swear that I do
I closed my eyes and thought happy thoughts
and then suddenly, I flew.

But if flying is like dying and the waning moon draws thin
and this flying is not flying, but instead drowning in my sin
then what am I to do with my filth coated wings
when I was only searching for that little bird that sings
because I wanted to ask its secret- the message in the song
that is sings without ceasing, in the darkness, all night long-
for I had found comfort in that sweet little sound
and I wanted to be grounded in the steadiness of the ground
but a different song still called to me, the lilting of the sky
and I found that though I fought it, when I was dying
I could fly.