Wings Pristine

The richness of the blue sky,
Is lost to the troubled eye,
The dust on the mirror,
Calls for clean hands,
Who has ever heard of dirt cleaning dirt?

The flight into the heart of the sky,
Needs wings pristine,
Neither the body nor the mind will survive,
Death is certain,
Yet, one is alive,
All that has dropped are useless rags,
Rags that hold us up,
From uncovering our conscious self...