His wings are clipped. They hold no air.
Swaying like a strand of hair.
A sad image, mixed with color and tears.
The artist weeps but also fears.
That the image might begin to fade.
To it we become a slave.
He is fallen but he does not fall. To falter in step expected, remain tall.
And as he searches desperately for that which is lost. He burns the earth with his tears. He does not realize that what he seeks is no longer obtainable. Sadly does he flutter to land but not to be a god among men. He has no pride for that. Instead he accepts what fate has written.
And as a sun dies, a star is born.
To outshine that which was lost.
And as a son is born, a father dies.
To free up light for those to come.