A Quiet Ascent

Most wings are destined to be clipped,

their fate running deeper than their desires,

their destinies intertwined with their own misfortunes.

You can either have your wings clipped,

or be like Icarus—

these are the options that prevail.

But how can a novice,

an impressionist in heart,

seal their fate with the undulations of nature?

Why can’t they trace the boundless skies

without being scorched by the sun’s unyielding wrath?

Why can’t they rise from their own ashes

like a phoenix crowned in flame,

its wings carved from the embers of its own undoing?

Being extraordinary isn’t the only triumph,

being benevolent isn’t the only form of mercy.

You can wield your own Excalibur

and let its blade rest in quiet command—

not towards your enemies,

but towards yourself.

For sometimes, the fiercest mercy

is the ruthlessness you spare for your own heart.