If only I Still Wore those Wings of Canvas and Bamboo by WC Roberts
12 stories above the drowned Cathedral grounds
on the ledge, just under the spire’s roof
my back against the wall, under the gargoyle
his front talons outstretched, darkly angelic, he’d hardly save me
spewing ice-cold rainwater, he seems indifferent to my life and death
while the choir of their passage, the Valkyrie
circle in the blood-red sky
pick out the heroes and villains from the battle still raging below
their souls aglow
whether to Valhalla or to Folkvangr (their judgment)
I remain invisible, beyond help or harm
a ghost, simply
shivering
convulsive with cold
shackled to the ledge and to the side of the wall
by sheer terror
my fear of heights, and of falling
an observer
if only I still wore those wings of canvas and bamboo
I wore in the mountains of Shangri-La!
to my own undoing, I admit
Would that I could still do battle, and be judged
would that I could fall into the fray
to change the tide
to cry my cry of ecstasy
as rage and blood filled my senses with power and might
squandered on a cause I could not know
so I am bound
and in my own selfish vanity I cried–
’tis well I cry nothing, I’ve nothing to say
illustration By Peter Paul Rubens – Web Gallery of Art:  Image  Info about artwork, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=5899524
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