Tattered Wings

Seven torches lit at the end of a pier

teetering over the edge of the world.

A single step forward, bereft of his final tear.

May these tattered wings at last unfurl.

A stack of mist-curled pages sit atop a broken desk,

the legs snapped off from the effort of dragging it here.

Smears of messy black dance those pages like an arabesque.

The culmination of his entire career.

Every lacerating heartache has lead to this moment.

Every second of unbearable isolation, the catalyst

to conceive a miracle of his very own, mewling and nascent

The essence through which his legacy will persist.

His pen falls still for the final time.

Punctuating the final sentence of the final line.

He's reached the summit of his tallest climb.

His miniscule part to play in the grand design.

Seven torches sear away the starless night,

casting the pier in a dome of radiance.

And somewhere, lost within all that wonderful light

is a man that's only ever desired penance.

Inspiration loves to hide in only the darkest caverns.

Majesty molded by the macabre hands of tragedy.

Sometimes even the phoenix must traverse Death's sojourn

and often too early, so must we.

Entwined rhythms of Solitude and Silence, 

echoing song of the muses' chorus.

But one is missing, scarring their music with dissonance;

without Serenity's voice, there's little hope for us.

As he gently peels back the twine-bound cover

the voices slip their way back inside his naked ear.

Despite their baseless venom, his judgment falters,

his crystalline words no longer seeming so clear.

Every passing page drives him closer to the edge,

rewriting until nothing remains of something wondrous.

Demons of doubt split him from his child like a wedge,

slaughtering his masterpiece and devouring its carcass.

Seven torches lit at the end of a pier

and tattered wings, bound too tight to unfurl.

The flames serve as a reminder, one for every year

that he's been trapped here alone at the edge of the world.