He lies prone,
blessedly unaware of the stigma of seawater
encasing his forgone fears,
in gentle, perpetual laps.
Death is never an unsuitable finale.
Fractured feathers fled
from flight, forgetting
how they hardened at the sun’s sight.
Echoes of their chants, unashamedly:
I cannot tell
if my wax had sealed but
yours never will.
Meld my bones with a thousand suns
My marrows bleed light, gold resplendent
Purge my blood in celestial fire
Impale me, and my body
As I face skyward
As I swallow and become the brilliant blues
Thus liberate me.
Call us brave,
For there is no word for doomed faith.
This piece has been published in Teen Ink’s monthly print magazine.