to freely fly and touch the sky;
and grace the heavens above all things,
strike angels down with broken wings.
alas, i did not comprehend, the beauty far beneath their souls,
so fell prey to incompetence, somewhere between love and black holes.
i begged and pleaded to their hearts,
and bargained mercy from their eyes;
but neither have they human parts,
nor have they ears for callous lies.
so cry, ashamed, and banished i - before i could yet chance my stay,
and beckoned back the angels frowned, and told to i to go away.
yet icarus did not heed hear,
and listen oft to primal fear;
again wished i this sordid soul,
could mend itself - again be whole.
so in the constellations prayed, and divined in the planet's gaze,
for 'nother chance at angel's tears such that we would not yet pass ways.
how can this sordid soul beget,
what does deserve he not this yet;
and complicate in words unsaid,
far and above and angel's head.
so supernovas and big bangs, are pass and manage cyclic feat;
come back, oh angel, to this soul, and make him once again complete.
the best inspiration derives from things that are real. and, for me, i find that one of the most real feelings i have ever had (or at least the most realising of feelings) is heartbreak and the torment of a hopeless, soulless romantic. some of the most beautiful poetry i have ever read are those abound of love, but none of them ever did compare to the ones unrequited. and so, here, for the first time (i think), i am unabashedly publishing something i wrote for fermina of the red roses. i think there is a stellar irony in knowing the fact that it will never be read by fermina (or anyone else for that matter), but if ever there be justice in this world, let it not be said that i did not write.
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