all roads curve into one,
and all streams bend until they reach the ocean-
but life, bears no such certainty.
I wonder what the light knows of hell,
on this, finest day in all of september-
I remember, as a child
I'd walk the long wheat isles,
the sun always present. The crow's eye.
I used to watch it, burn and smolder
until the world became pitch black, invisible.
I am a bastards daughter-
my father left his wings to me,
I understand how Icarus felt:
to be so close to divinity,
only to be denied and put asunder
for wanting more than what mere wings can offer.