Lightning Strikes

I am sorry the feathers tucked into my hair cannot let me fly

With you among the crimson clouds to touch and taste

Infant raindrops and the crisp static of lightning unformed.

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I lament that the slits drawn across my throat

Will never allow me to dive below the sunkissed surface of the sea

And touch discarded pearls in deep trenches with you.

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The blood in my veins is decorative, unmoving, and the tears

Gathered in the corners of my eyes, distorting my vision

Are little more than the sweep of a brush across the face of a doll.

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Emptiness has carved out a ballroom in my chest where a beating heart

Should thump, should ache, should burn

With desires and dreams and despair.

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Instead, a symphony has taken residence in the barren hallways,

The lofty ballroom of my chest and dragged bow across strings,

Weeping and dreaming in my place.

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I'll watch you float higher and higher until even your shadow takes flight.

When you descend to claim undiscovered beauties and treasure,

I'll watch you then too, entranced by the freedom of your heart.

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But fire will consume my flesh and the orchestra will scream

When my lips cannot muster the courage because I am no doll,

Only a creature caught frozen in the moonlight.

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