He gave him wings and told him how to fly,
but the dreams were his own, and he would not listen.
He was so afraid they might come true
that he chose to extinguish them without a fight.
Some prefer a tragic end
to whatever truth might hold in store:
that it might prove cruel and betray them,
that they might brush their dreams with their fingertips
only to see them snatched away in mid-flight.
They think: “Better not to start down that tragic path.
Better to suffer a fate that is certain.
Better to stay in the circle of despair,
better to wither slowly in this hole.”
The poetry about shattered dreams in the first part was only the prelude, the surface. The true backbone of this work is the Voice. The deep, resonant word that stretches like a tunnel into the depths of our Being:
The true story,
the truly painful one,
speaks of the withdrawn, the constrained.
Of the one who inhabited a world
so suffocatingly rigid.
It reveals the mute, the silenced,
a lost fawn.
The one who walks the path
carefully unnoticed.
The one who feels that, deep within,
nothing deserves to be shared.
But something breaks his silence:
an angel has descended.
It has lifted his steps
and caressed his throat.
One who had to die
so that another could learn to live
turns death into a gift.
For one who lives stifled does not live.
He is a mournful coffin of echoes,
a doll,
a puppet.