I see blue on the tip of my white seagull wings.
I dive sharp into Desire and tear the sky,
I circle around my prey in rings
and I nibble pity off of Desire’s lips – I make them bleed.
I see white on the tip of my white albatross wings.
I do not pivot or halt, I am set to meet the Horizon.
My wings won’t carve the clouds for I travel not in search of,
but to spread my wings along the breadth of knowledge.
Alas, I am a waif of the winds;
caged in a conundrum between two fates.
I die as Hedone under the sun that burns,
when I touch my human nature.
And revive as Astraea with a cold evening breeze,
fleeing from chaos before the hourglass overturns.