Fred Aiken Writing

flutter and flit, wings a blur of gold; a whisper promises at night,

of bright futures and dreams fulfilled

careful hands reach out to grasp it, but its feathers slip through fingers like dust collecting in the corner

a world where truth and meaning are elusive, wings snipped

power down; paper crown; chords cut

searching for the fragments of meaning in the shattered pieces of gossamer dreams; but often, all that is found is disillusionment and despair sitting in the corner of the room with legs and arms crossed

yet still, wings expand, lift, cut through ozone,

hoping against hope;

even in the midst of fragments, a neon beacon glows, strobe lights repurposed for this dance

in flight