Slow Wings
Within my true macadam
tethered reins roll—
A ragged seam play
On cords unmade.
This bag of feathers
My pins, rehashed
held the dreaminess
In its youth's mask.
Pinions dark within
Move through my own
breathlessness;
A jab dug in my pillow—
Its cloth frisked.
Vigil my heart out of time
That her coma at last
allows sleep—
A new probing dream
lifted by wings.
My pale dark in analysis
Glows while in the light.
But like a butterfly's effects
in my skin—
Our cocoon's riddled strife.
The fiber of these
slow wings—
falls first at
the thread's melting.
Copyright © Paige Hind | Year Posted 2023
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