Architecture of Flight

At the height of my crest-fallen war,

your defiant vow bedazzles above,

as wing-swoops crush hate-gales in skyward soar.

So come now, my black crown, with storming love

and release all that I have bound again;

a deathly flight—dark, a wing crumpled dove.

Rising dawn, shred bleak breaking un-restrain,

with meddled grace and queenly haste, you crush

and mend these feathered arms—sickly twain.

A crippled shame killed-alive, self-gushed.

Alas, into star crackled skies, I rise!

Dark clouds darken below, and I, sun blushed.

And the wind-with-her-words, ah, beautywise!

A scathing launch achieved by mercy’s guise.