ungraciouspastor

It's a start (you tell me)— —a bird, life lived in an open cage with wings clipped. not nearly trapped, but close enough. The night creeps in and the door slips shut; I'm ready to fly away. -- What can we do, but sing cacophonous: here, there is a rattle of bars and a crash of drums in the darkness. Ringing high and true, crisp in the nighttime frost I shed my flight in the fall so the winter might ravage me, raw. The last few shreds of down flutter to the cage floor, and I am gone. -- Cages and mirrors, both are as lakes of ice: These things are children of our own vanity. The abyss is only as deep as we