I think of her less often now,
only several times a day.
And while I wish her back to me
I know that she will stay.

Daily now my thoughts do drift
to other things more pleasant.
And even though these words I write
they are to me, my present.

Still at the forge I pound the keys
that form my gilded wings.
Yet where I'll fly when they are done,
I can not say, I do not know of future things.

Like my soul they are tempered
by passions heat quickly chilled.
And like my heart they will not bend
as quickly by another heart so willed.

As I craft these wings of mine,
the words that I express,
I still feel the emotions
though they be some what suppressed.

The pinnacles of height I've known,
and the depth of my despair.
Had I these wings to soar before
doubtless I would still be there.

As I softly ply my wings
on currents of her gentle air.
Her quiet thermals I'd still ride,
at risk of passions flare.

For often I have soared
with wings much less developed
over oceans of her love
with her lift I've been enveloped.

And so I'll wish for one more flight
with these wings of better craft.
To ply the winds of your emotions
in search of a love with strength to last.