This poem I wrote in high school after reading James Joyce's A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man (Signet Classics)
Black birds glide like winged shadows
In the soft violet air.
The hero looks on, silent and thinking,
seeing prophesies unfold above him.
Dreams, yet untold of youth, foolishness,
Epiphanies and childish love flash in his mind.
He waits, his arms still,
Listening to the call of his winged brethren.
He remembers being scorched and drowned, falling.
He watches the skies deepen into purple.
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