Restless, he wakes
To a sky full of stars
And his thin bones are bruised
With most violet of scars.
A patch on his forearm
His hip bones, a peach
Distorts its perfection
With the autumn it reached.
When the branches hang not
With the weight of its friends,
And the fruit falls alone
To dry grass it descends.
He awoke to a ceiling
He had not seen before
And a headache that stretched
From his curls to his jaw.
Lights from the windows
Below heaven, on streets
The lamps light up paths
Where the mortals all meet.
Which makes it hurt more –
That he is so alone –
They left so much earlier
From the place he called home.
To the world past the glass
He casts his eyes, only two,
From horizon to starlight
Hopes he returns soon.
There’s a humbling pi(e)ty
To these toy tin human things
Words tumble on tongues
Where are my wings?
