Futility

Ghost Wings

0426.2025

The sun sings me awake

with its voice of salt and gold—

it folds sorrow into the sea,

drowning it beneath the oldest bones.

I’ve unstitched every thread,

its pride wearing me

like rusted armor—

its cruelty coming

in too many kind voices.

It’s killed my desire for breath,

to taste life’s honey,

to try, and…

I’ve released the thread—

the thread of a ghost-winged dove

sent soundlessly

through the hush of my tears.

I recall the spell hope can cast.

I watch the shape of its leaving.

I hear the wind moan behind its face.

They say breaking apart of things,

was all mine—

but the fracture,

like the blade,

was always in their hands.

m.c.f.

AI-generated conceptual visual ⊹ Edited in Photoshop ⊹ Created to accompany the poem ⊹ Not for sale