O, Janus.

I douse myself
And let myself be plucked
Like dulcet strings
And as smoke drifts into my drawn out face
It is the updraft in my flightless wings

They are broken children's things
I am a broken child's thing

I am blind
And search the depths
And the heights of the tallest trees
Contentment swells within my breast
A great many things can my eyes see