Prompt: The wings and that freedom are shown to be so strong they overwhelm all else. In the second verse, it appears that they're forgotten, for no mention is made of them even in relation to the inability to escape. by lithiumlaughter. The Wings in Me
So, lithiumlaughter asked me about What happened to the wings? in the original version of this poem, so I asked the character who wrote it and he laughed, a little darkly, and told me, “How could I tell her everything she made me feel?” Then he gave me the rest of the poem.
The Darkness Cleave
Who from blood can a butterfly make; / Who can heal and make it take?
When the fires of love ignited and burned,
I realized all I had ever learned
Could not compare to the wings in me
When your hand touched mine and set them free:
I never knew quite how to fly,
But I know the physics of a frozen cry,
Of weary feet on a darkened road,
Of stinging warmth to a heart gone cold;
I know the taste of the oft-betrayed,
Sweet and bitter when pain’s delayed.
Vestigial wings the darkness cleave,
And all I know is how to leave:
Burn the tears until diamonds shatter;
Light the road with flames that matter;
Kindling be and burn in the dark—
Sacrifice this worthless heart.
Where I would fall and into shards,
You gather me up like a deck of cards.
Fallen phoenix from ashen grim
The fingers sew and scissors trim.
Who from blood can a butterfly make;
Who can heal and make it take?
Who can bind the broken things?
Who can break what makes them me,
Can mend the wings and mend the quick—
Broken and bloody, bruised and slick?
I want to run from this spell you weave,
But I’ve forgotten how to leave.
Then I choose my path anew
(I’d do it all again for you):
Burn the road ’til it lights the dark;
Stretch these wings with ashen mark;
Whisper words you would not hear
Softly, gently upon your ear.
The fires of love I understand;
The wings I leave within your hand.
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