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She was laying there in the flower bed,
Her nose was running, her eyes were red.
She’s so busy grieving over falling,
She doesn’t care how high she flew,
How close she was to the truest truth.
This is just the nature of her,
Wildwood hair and fingers worked to blood.
She pulls shapes up out of mud,
Forms and scrapes together wings,
From memories of her one perfect day,
Scraps of lace and paper mache,
And the taste of his fingers on her bones.
Icarus always, reborn a dream wrapped in wax,
Reaching for a tinfoil moon on a blue velvet sky.
It’s the night that she’s hunting hung up with stars.
But day that she finds the higher she climbs,
Light so bright there’s nowhere to hide.
So she plummets back to start again,
With nothing but ticky tack taped paper wings.
Covered in tiny golden hairs made of string,
She wavers in the wind like a bag of broken bones,
She walks barefoot among the nameless broken stones.
She’s waiting for the love that breaks the walls,
She’s waiting for another chance to hear her calls.
Scream her name into a cold gray sea,
Wherever she is, that’s where she’ll be.