Broken Wings & Shattered Dreams I remember a day when I was not old. I remember it as one remembers a dream of nights long forgotten; An aftertaste, an imprint deep in the psyche, when one does not and cannot venture. I have the mantle of years long lived and poorly used bearing down on me and so my wings are clipped and my feet are broken. Even so, what is the worst of it is not my broken shell lying imprisoned on the ground; it is the spirit that in absence of all external constraints, has forged internal bounds of fear. Bounds that hold it down unable to dream, desire and want.... To fly and to fall... To rise and rise and soar and dive. I am old and yet my age is not but twenty and three. My spirit is shackled by my hands of fright. Soaring is but a prelude to fall. Better not to want than to forever yearn and be in the dark. Never look up but always look down, for that is where you will eventually fall. My age is not but twenty and three, and the valor of childhood is just a dream buried deep and forgotten how to be lived. My spirit in chains of senseless worry and shadowed by loathing and doubt. Dreaming of a day able to dream once more with all of my heart.
