Her glass wings are gone.
What you get is no longer what you see.
I feel that the task of criticizing my poetry is best left to others (i.e. critics) and would much rather have it take place after I am dead. If at all.
But some people can't tell where it hurts. They can't calm down. They can't ever stop howling.
I would rather dance as a ballerina, though faultily, than as a flawless clown.
I am rather saddened at the end of a book. I think most writers find this. It's like a friend departing on a voyage.