Late Stage

Bones crunching under
the weight of
sustained misalignment.
No pressing fingers
can undo these kinks. 
Twisted and folded
into insecure knots
that are uneasily undone,
I yearn for the release.
I wish to drink in
the moments of silent
moonrises and night 
flows, of clarity captured
in the flutter of a 
messenger’s wings. Flight 
was always the birthright.
And yet, I am pressed to 
a smokescreen of safe 
precarity. Unscrupulous
monotonies are tapped
into keyboards so some 
king on a hill can swell 
pockets of conceit.