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Once on the west wind I flew
proudly and without fear.
No concerns or tribulations
weighing down my dreams.
But then an arrow flew
from the bow of a cherub.
Piercing me as I glided
high above the mortal plains.
At first the shot brought joy
as I bathed in pure ecstasy.
It was if I had found paradise
and so I did not mind being grounded.
But to keep the pleasure strong
I had to keep the arrow in me.
And slowly but surely
the arrow started to change me.
When I would try to fly
I found I could not soar.
For my wings had gotten shorter
smaller and less strong.
It took another to keep me aloft
without my other half I fell.
And I began to despise myself
for needing a constant prop.
But through the course of time
I learned to stop flying solo.
It became second nature for me
to need another to alight.
Then one night in midflight
I caught a strong breeze on the wing.
And my other half became seperrated
and suddenly I had to fly alone.
When the wind died down
I saw my former fellow flier.
She had followed on the west wind
and left a scent that forbade following.
I looked down at the arrow
that was still embedded in my wing.
And I saw something different
and tasted the poison coming out.
The wound from the arrow is healing
and I'm beginning to fly again.
The wound to my heart still bleeds
and is a wound which cannot heal.
It is painful to fly
as I learn to solo again.
But there is a vision in me
which keeps me going airborne.
I see a day coming
not too far from now.
When I shall fly again.
Free, proud, majestic and alone.