The illusion of hope hangs bitterly above bedside,
Cheek ever gently flattened upon windowsill,
In hopes cool transparency mirrors density,
So that I may take flight into night air on wings of an eagle.
Or enter the kingdom of the gods by way of broken wing.
The sky holds no stars, or clouds, and offers no luminescence.
Soul guided only by nature's intuition,
Cast into the abyss of bright city lights.
But this window mirrors not its density,
Yet another night laid by windowsill,
Yet another night my soul's eagle heart shan't take flight.