Ingrown wings,
translucent shadows lacing my negative space
to blast away confinement and stand atop the ruins of

this barren place
summoned out of the ashes and cleansed of the pain,
the embers of my mask.
Ingrown wings,
in some corner of the earth a lone dove still sings
circling back to the fork where dead-end meets

new beginning,
where light is reincarnated,
where love is no longer a cliché
clothed in darkness and bare amidst light,
the embers of my mask.
Ingrown wings,
molding life into words and abstract things
failing to see beyond reality
cremated alongside naiveté,
the embers of my mask.
Ingrown wings,
the shallow cries of self-inflicted pain
a final glance in the mirror before we all go insane
standing bare atop what is now a listless mound,
I will be hollow until new substance is found,
the embers of my mask.