He fades away,
With one last song,
One last cry,
It won't be long,
Before his wings are clipped and torn.
He runs away,
From his narrow cage,
but he's trapped within,
these bars of rage,
And he's falling on his soft, white, bleeding wings.
He tries his best,
To stay in sight,
Of the path he set,
But he's broken his flight,
For now he can't claim the sky as his own.
He's free at last,
But he's lost his drift,
The laughter dies,
And the darkness lifts.
And in the night air there is a triumphant, savage cry...
...And then it dies.
Memories of Midnight by wendelin the wierd
Chapter Notes: Credit for the 'bars of rage' metaphor goes to Maya Angelou. R & R, if you please. :)