She is a lost soul,
beautiful in her wandering.
I pray she stay fixed in her oblivion
of a world that doesn’t deserve her,
of a world that broke her.
Her crippled wings are masked by aster and grace.
Twilight veils her eyes,
sparkling constellations I stared into once,
because now all that remains of them
is a desolate emptiness.
She has a kind heart
and a humble disposition.
Her wings can’t fly
so she made friends with the dirt,
and watches the clouds carry on without regret.
She is bound by grey feathers
instead of the purity she once embodied,
and somehow she makes them look silver.
She is a fallen dove,
but carries ineffable beauty in her beak.
Each time they break her
is another facet from which she shines.
They try to contain her,
but she is a beautiful storm,
A beautiful storm.