Feathers in Her Hair

Perhaps the rage will subside and when it does, it will take my soul with it? Perhaps I am done crying hallow tears over festering wounds I lick open.
Perhaps I have finally reached a point of "reality" that will transcend this universe and all that is wasted time and space filled with useless cruelty of mankind in it.
Perhaps it's no longer about wasted love and martyrdom? Perhaps it's not about the self pity and sulking in the "what could have been"?
Perhaps all happiness resides in the memories we had as children, when things were simple and the air seemed fresher.
Perhaps it's there I should reside, incoherent, with feathers in my hair, sitting upon high as a Goddess of all woodland creatures. Running through meadows kissed by the sun, filled with childhood laughter echoing through distant times and a male companion that only saw me as the center of his universe. There in Vienna, among ivy covered castle ruins, we lived an honest life and believed honest things, loved for all the right reasons because we were children.
Perhaps being an angel with no purpose but to remember those sweet moments is my destiny. I will paint my face and call to the wild with feathers in my hair and ignore the Empires I could have at my command.

Perhaps here I don't need to be rescued from the "madness". Perhaps the only reason I would want anyone to suck the venom from my veins is to feel their warm lips on my wound.

Walking dichotomies, such we are.