Prodigal

It is an olde tale often told
That is still good

Ev’rything broken
Ev’rything lost

A prodigal son of Isis
Washes ashore en the City of Light

{One-Beat Pause}

Gazing upon his form (en a mirror of spotless glass),
An anointed, tho’ terribly flaw’d, maker of bridges
Shrugs his shoulders,

“The wings feel a lot lighter than eye remember.”

© LogosVox 2013

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