I am flying.
An imaginary hand clenching at my heart,
It refuses to beat.
Now, take a seat, while I showcase this feat.
My feet doesn't ache anymore,
yet my throat is still sore.
As if some grief is still left in store.
At the tip of some hue and cry,
yet every time silenced by a self invented lie.
Even though bleeding, no blood is seen.
Seems like the epiphany of the soul's shenanigans indeed.
Cremated the past of the mundane covet,
Yet again dug up the grave of eloquent being.
Scared and hiding behind twisted words,
Waiting for a soul to decipher the cryptic message.
I am flying, towards the light.
I have wings, but they just don't feel the flight.