Restrictions to light, barring the heaven in plain sight.
How could you force yourself to stare at a broken reflection
through your own eyes in a murky, deceptive puddle?
Are you unable to see the truth that lies not very distant,
not even unreachable, but right in front of your eyes?
Your feathers, so white, it emits a thousand reflected rays
and shoots them like misguided arrows
straight to hell and back, but wherein do you belong
when both heaven and hell rejects you?
Standing in the in between of two warring worlds,
how everyone envies you as you run through stunning meadows
of endless beauty, where flower petals dance among the winds
and the wind whispers in a serene manner,
and you, how you run, yet stagger at the same time,
limping as red taints the blades of grass
and flowers are drenched in your painful regurgitation.
Why must the one winged angel suffer more?
Your white feathers are now crimson red.
As you fade away, I can only watch as you flee your image
and become just another flower amongst this field.
How does it feel knowing that you're not wanted?
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