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Ingrown wings, translucent shadows lacing my negative space to blast away confinement and stand atop the ruins of this barren place summoned out of the ashes and cleansed of the pain, the embers of my mask. Ingrown wings, in some corner of the earth a lone dove still sings circling back to the fork where dead-end meets new beginning, where light is reincarnated, where love is no longer a cliché clothed in darkness and bare amidst light, the embers of my mask. Ingrown wings, molding life into words and abstract things failing to see beyond reality cremated alongside naiveté, the embers of my mask. Ingrown wings, the shallow cries of self-inflicted pain a final glance in the mirror before we all go insane standing bare atop what is now a listless mound, I will be hollow until new substance is found, the embers of my mask. | ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
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