Every step, and every sole we take
Is lost to our same second.
We make constant company:
From one a soul is born.
We shake, we shiver, we split in two.
Like Victor, a beast
Of dappled origins. Of murky passion
And golden eye; of partial torture
And paternal tethering.
His feathers do we clip in prayer
And suffer the fear of fall.
Yet sole-prints that we vain collect,
Fain joy from sod and soil.
A tug-of-war we wage within
To reach the distant sky,
The wingèd beast is not our friend
But can I watch him die?