Aquila

Wind, 

Wing, 

Whim. 

A whistle, as the howling wind is even surpassed in glory, in majesty; 

A screech; for those flamboyant colours are mere display. 

I sever the strand that is the gap in my lieu and my growing earthly connection 

And arc heavenwards prey-in-talon to beseech the world asong.  

Dissonant, unheard, unanswered.  

Of those humans below: “Stare; does horror mingle with the awe?  

I say let them both mingle with the guilt of hands irreproachable, but not blameless in the least.” 

Of my own lofty soul and fluid form, grace to the skies, bane of birds, ethereal eye, noble observer:  

“Talons of ice and fire and steel, yet none, nor, neither – talons sink down, the net to the fish of the sky.” 

Incomparable. Discordant. 

My raw thoughts coalesce and acclimate; they ebb and they wax as the rhythm of the eastern wave, 

Atavistic, consummate, eroding, unhindered, that body of power unimpeded by self. 

I conclude, but do not, that humanity lacks, it lacks in that power which I have in full: 

The eagle’s eye, the far-sighted touch, that broad span of mind from a span broad in view. 

Flight.