a magician stand on the edge of a cliff
with his coattails facing toward the sea
a dove is behind him, cooing softly
he shoots its sun white wing
and it flutters toward his face
its feathers scratch his eye
its salty tears fall on his lips
its shrieks fall on his pointed ears;
it is closer than it ever was
its beak is sharper than the jagged rocks below
but it does not bite at all
the magician falls
Author notes
It is strange paradox even to myself that love and irritation seem to be the only things I am ever capable of feeling or even expressing. Why then, do I feel so fucking apathetic? That confusion, that ostensible apathy hurts most of all because I really do care; I'm just a magician, an illusionist. I proclaim myself as one who is good with words, but really I'm not. No words can express what I feel, and whenever I try, it always comes out wrong and/or is misinterpreted, but I guess that's my fault for not changing the way I do things. If the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again expecting different results than I am beyond psychotic. I'm a sociopath and a maniac. Yes, I am a sociopath. I almost want to non-exist.
Previously called: A Dove, a Cliff, and Jagged Rocks
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