Who do you think you are?

I am a passion,
a delinquent rage
and exorbitant fear.
I bow down to the misery
of a richer fuller life,
and battle against the despair
of an existence unfulfilled.
I am the sulphurous stench
of a choking tar pit,
the nutty slack in your lungs.

Who am I to you?

You are the unrequited,
the teary-eyed beleaguered gemstone
gleaming in the moonshine.
You are the aurora
lighting up the dark northern sky,
angels in the brimstone.
You belong as an essence,
the original sin
consuming the minds of pious men.
You are the withered flower,
too weak to graze the sun.

A window bird sat upon the sill,
singing sweetly songs of spring.
Why do you sing? I asked,
As I weep for inconsequential things.
He looked at me, amazed.
For I am a bird, he replied,
And I can go wherever I please.
For why cannot I?
I implored,
For I have no wings of my own.
You do, said the bird,
You just have not used them yet.

What do you dream of?

Never coming back down.