Someone clipped my wings
on the rooftops of Bal'mer
when I was nineteen.
I didn't feel it,
nor did i see it happen;
but after those days
I forgot to fly
when great escapes were called for.
Instead, I go grey,
I gain wrinkles and
time and not a small bit of
tolerance to pain.
I've asked my dear friend
to show me the photographs
from our rooftop days,
to see myself then-
skin smoother with that wild look
in my eyes. Ready.
The whole world below
me, waiting to fall victim
as I make my move.
But I need to search
the pictures for something more.
I need evidence-
some proof to this guess
of mine that I know how it
happened.
I suspect that I'll
see a proud me with one hand
swiftly preening wings,
the other hand white-
knuckled, firmly gripping a
pair of sharpened shears.
The look on my face
should tell me what I'm after.
Why did I do it?
