The flight

A rusty pen nib and an empty ink bottle…
A pair of shivering hands and a broken needle….
Cigarette smoke filling a room so hollow,
A broken window pane and a blood stained pillow.
The shadows of the day giving way to night,
a few chopped fingers and a hazy sight...
Another snort please before I could finally die,
"you may cut my wings but a cripple can fly…."

On a cold winter night

Fire flames were touching the sky,
burning fiercely and rising high.
Voices became noises as "they" stood in plight;
it had to be, but, a cold winter night.....

‘Twas the house of a man of a modest flight,
his wife and daughter "they" could not sight.
Terror gripped him as he caught a glimpse,
eyes stoned, shivered harshly his limbs...

He started running with all his might;
piling all grit, gave his last fight.
His bleeding body caused him no pain,
A burning inferno inside his brain….

Lost his breath as he reached the gate,
as “they” blamed it on the irony of fate.
A burnt doll’s house had caught his eye,
He knew his “flights” could no more fly.

And then came pouring the mocking rain,
On the sunken ship, captain in disdain
And the noises became voices as he lost his fight;
It had to be, but, a cold winter night.....