Wounded Wings

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"Wounded Wings" is a new small book of poetry by Marie that has been released in June 2025. It is small because Marie is currently not writing much poetry as she is mainly concentrating on her Faces of Angels project, but the poetry in it is as poignant and hauntingly beautiful as usual.

You need a password in order to download it. The password is the same as for Just Poems, that is to say Marie's first name, the first letter of her second name and her surname all in one word (not capitalized) in Marie's secret language.

Here is a preview:

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Tired

 

I’ve loved too much.

I’ve trusted too much.

I’ve suffered too much.

Now I’m tired,

a sun-deprived flower

drooping its head towards the ground,

threaded upon by strangers

who walk by without noticing,

without caring.

 

One day

one of these mechanical mannequins

will walk on me,

and the drooping will become flat,

and the prayers will end

with a bang.

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Deserted by Dreams

 

Dreams have deserted me,

lured past the twilight zone

by lurid reality freaks.

Now emptiness reigns undisputed,

yawns everywhere,

the goal signs knocked down.

 

Momo’s time thieves have won,

their lifeless eyes ticking

like an old cash register.

They didn’t understand,

they didn’t understand

that their lollipop abduction

would mean their end too.

 

Meanwhile, the sun keeps

rising and setting

over a lifeless, dreamless

apocalyptic landscape

with no children and no birds –

deafening silence,

no colours,

absolutely nothing.

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She Tried

 

She tried, she really tried,

but the dark forces had found the key

to her inner sanctum

and desecrated it with debris of sorrow

and forgotten tears,

blocking the light with their callous hands.

 

She tried, she really tried,

but they kept laughing at her

from their throne of gargoyles,

pointing fingers in all directions

to accuse and confuse.

 

She tried, she really tried,

but when the birds stopped singing

and the blue disappeared from the sky

like a watercolour drawing in the rain,

she crouched

and was silent

forever.

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​The Sisters

 

Happiness knocked on her door

unexpected and uninvited.

Silence was on the other side,

a smell of incense and flowers.

 

Happiness tried again,

whistling a little tune

from another time,

a time long gone.

 

She thought she heard some steps,

but then it was silence again.

A lingering light poked

from under the door,

inviting to clutch undefined visions.

 

Happiness knocked a third time

and thought she heard a bird singing,

but again, nobody opened.

Happiness turned around to meet her sister

Sadness.

 

No words were exchanged,

just a casual hug,

while a powerful Requiem started playing

behind the door that never opened.

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The Knock

 

The knock went unanswered –

the knuckles, the breath

gravid with angst and the unknown.

Terra incognita can be dangerous,

its fascination a flickering

fata morgana.

Opening the door to the unknown

can flood you with light –

or darkness.

 

The knock went unanswered –

steps slowing fading away

like a forgotten nursery rhyme,

or a dream fleeing

at the first hints of light.

 

The knock went unanswered,

and a new day started

like any other day –

with a coffee and a quick look

at disquieting headlines.

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Heraclitus’ Heresy

 

Time has stolen your identity,

moments hooked on moments

towering up in a prison

devoid of light,

love just a blurred, bizarre

memory.

 

Tentative colours here and there,

pushing through cracks,

remindful of life outside,

that life you never had.

 

Even dreams turn sour

when entombed in walls,

visions stop pirouetting on rainbows,

To Kao defeated.

 

Obstinate tokens still knock

on the door of your mind,

but you ignore them –

the handle is broken.

 

Where is that urge

that kept you alive?

What happened to those little joys

that made you so awfully human?

Were they real joys or fata morganas?

 

Time has stolen your identity,

its toll on you Heraclitus’ heresy.

Sun and moon still announce the hours outside,

but you don’t know

because your cell has no window.

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Fancy

 

Fancy a world

where everybody holds hands like children,

black fingers interlocked with white,

laughter defying and defeating

the barriers of language.

 

Fancy a world

where helping is a way of life,

as natural as sunrise

or a waterfall surrendering to gravity,

laughing all along.

 

Fancy a world

where you are me

and I am you,

identity shattered,

clouds merging with clouds

before a burst of blue.

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All poems © Marie Faverio