Wanting to be worthy of air,
no pleasure in knowing she's not.
Each deep breath meant to heal,
but on her soul's thorns, they caught.

Why the aged eagle tries to fly,
to seek the last meal she needs,
when into her mouth, Ash Wednesday
arrives and her crow's soul bleeds.

Wings just slap at cloud,
too long broken and denied.
To take a leap of faith
would be akin to suicide.

How one so learned in torment,
still mourns what's often shown,
remarkable that through her years,
the antidote's unknown.

Were she to believe in mercy,
her pleas would be to forget.
The knowledge she's to blame,
for all the joys she'll never get.

The champion only of outcasts,
shunned by love and fate and luck.
she'd pester the gods with begging tears,
but they'd never give a fuck.

Inspired by Shakespeare's 'Sonnet 29', and T.S. Eliot's 'Ash Wednesday'... and my own life experience..