The hawk stands,
Bloodied, battered, and beaten.

Unafraid, yet forgotten by the winds,
He once accompanied the stars,
Riding on the backs of clouds,
Now he can only stargaze from the ground
And remember wind that no longer knows his name.
The starry lanterns light his way,
Winding through the clutches of the shadows
And narrowly escapes their hunger.
The ghosts of his feathers follow him, he knows,
Even though he only sees tattered flesh;
Grotesque, gross.
He lifts his beak,
Dreaming of the skies he once a part of.
The midnight’s wrinkles disappear as it’s worry dwindles
Because its whips were not wasted -
The hawk endured a rollercoaster of rage,
A rampage of control.
His face, terribly marred,
His eyes, gouged out like a cave of waterfalls;
The water, a rusty shade of red.
The wings, a faint memory of a horrendous incident,
A death seemingly imminent.
The hawk pleads with the sky as he cries and cries,
His destination so far,
Yet so close as the crow flies,
But he is no crow.
He would shake his fists at the sky if he had fists,
Thus he is resigned to constant sighs
As he keeps fighting for his own side,
Losing all his pride.
The darkness laughs in triumph as it weaves around the stars it stole,
But it forgot his talons,
And his beak,
And his soul.

The hawk stands;
He didn’t come this far to go no farther.