Wax of My Wings

With solitude, your hermitage

a place like a prison, small.

I stood in it, sat in its tree-like boughs,

and dreamt a different future than this.

You were safe enough for me

not to try until my wings grew back.

I was a colder version of a phoenix,

no fire shot from my fingertips,

I had gone cold, but still I rose.

Now, in this unforeseen universe

I shape the wax of my wings on my own.