It's Torn Wing Poem by James McLain

It flutters in accross on top of your fingers.
Yet you knew it, they are it's breath it's wings.
Tirelessly they beat against you, your buff
moans within it's wind as it shakes it.
Frantic you search around in your panic,
because you knew.Still you dont do you?
The tiny veins dry, all around you, looking
in powder puffs that hold your face, you blow
as it sees nothing, it is not numb, yet it was
because you never cared how high you flew,
on the torn wings of the one he tried to lift up.