Open Hands For Jaded Wings

I. An Ode To The Emptiness
II.Summer Tune For A Rainy Day
He spread his tired wings and leaped. The dirt trailed off his bruised nails in slow uncanny patterns as the mist navigated its aimless descent. The bruises were a faint memory of the cell's cold lifeless walls which he clawed seeking freedom as he longed for her company. The edge of the crisp morning wind guided his flight as he circled the skies and squinted hard to look into the sun. His feathers rustled like little crumpled strips of paper dancing to the tunes of a stormy day. He was one with the fourth element. He took one long, deep breath as the morning breeze filled his lungs. This was his moment of glory. Absolute freedom, unparalleled reality! It took him a few minutes to contain the unchained joy that clenched his heart as it throbbed in the throes of freedom. Although memories of the beauty haunted this very moribund aching heart, it felt right. Melancholy, they say is bittersweet. To him it sparked rare flavors that made him click his tongue and stifle a cry. His palms were open, facing down, fingers caressing the gentle wind while his thoughts reminisced the longing for her touch.

Her beauty, her divine form were etched into his memory as if it were worked on with his own hands. He didn't have the precision or the grace of a mason. Yet the memories were distinct; the dexterity to work with his otherwise bitter hands drawn from passion. As the wind cupped his face, it reminded him of her locks trembling over her moonlit face in the gentle breeze. She would gently kneel and pick flowers with her long fingers and twirl them as her eyes lit up with joy. She always wore white; she was an angel, maybe even his very desire to survive. A beaded red necklace embraced her softly like a child embraces its mother. The bars of the little window in his cell had marks of his frail hands, his benign misery. Now he had parted from the enclosure that had caged him for what seemed like all eternity. As he passed over a gentle, the water glistened in his gaze as the wind churned the beckoning seas. The skies unfolded colors that he had never imagined as he inched closer to the stratosphere. There was nothing to look forward to, nothing to regret. As the warmth from the sun engulfed his frail body, he could feel a sense of loss; was this how Icarus felt on his flight? His wings melting in the warm sunlight as he approached it, feeling complete. This was no story, this was reality.

The light was blinding. Yet it felt like the two crossing rainbows, 'the point of unity is where she dwells', he thought to himself. His wings grew warmer as the wind ruffled each feather. The talons shimmered like blazing flames that try to reach and lick the wind that sways them into this ecstatic dance. His shoulder grew heavier, his eyes watery from the single most powerful source that radiated the very life giving element. The open hand started to curl inwards and the bloom of a clenched fist drew its first marks across frayed veins. The blood pumped as though a million bulls were raging in each of his vein at the very onset of this last battle for life. The wind grew stronger opening it's now angry jaws to swallow this being that had set out to antagonize its frontal surge. His eyes gleamed like embers in the sunlight. Thus began the final descent; the fall unto the very chasm that he had tried to tear away from.