‘We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.’ – Oscar Wilde
From lofty heights descended,
an angel, fallen low.
Crystal dreams, dark testament,
a black eagle in white snow.
Once she raced before the wind,
but grew her wings too soon.
The dragon she chased, has turned to hunt
beneath a harvest moon.
The Beast stole joy and crawled away
over cracked and bleeding plains.
A white horse from stables bolted;
left dried up, broken veins.
Her palace of air the white boy stole –
to all four corners blown.
In a back alley gutter, she stares at the stars,
whispers there’s no place like home.