The Beauty of Falconish
You’ve been on a long flight, dear falcon, a spirit I chased through the dead of night.
Your feathers were meant for a joyful spring, but you gave me a dream of a sharper thing.
All I ever meant was to watch you fly.
The way you rise from the seabed with a heavy sigh —
a beautiful thing with no mercy left to give.
Where the ugly and the divine are forced to compromise,
you remind me of what it costs to live.
To remind us that nature is a violent sphere,
I watched you strike the water, tearing the fish I love.
My heart bled and screamed to intervene,
but I just stood there and let it happen.
Because to truly see you, to know what you mean,
is to put myself through hell.
I know how it feels to wear a merciless beak,
to carry the weight of a maker who built you to break at sunrise.
A silent suffering, the agony they call a gift,
the wretchedness of enduring the spark stolen from a sleeping god.
You carry the titan’s curse upon your wings,
punished for soaring where the holy trod.
Dragging our tired ambitions through these ugly realms,
I forget it all over and again.
In your wings unfurled I saw a solitude I crave to know.
Teach me half the wildness that your brain must know.
I would gather your lightless feathers and jump from the edge.
Such aliveness would flow from my lungs —
even if I knew it would kill me to fall,
I would wait for you, astonished and ruined.
You are alive in a way I will never be good enough to feel.
Oh, lovely mighty falcon, scorner of the ground,
all I ever meant was to see the flight you never made it through
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