Caged

To the bird born within a cage

wings are a burden

worse than the bars that hold her.

All the dreams of the welkin,

all the possibilities beyond the pen

are mere fiction,

when the truth is the hindrance the wings bring.

To trot within her cell,

the plume is a pain,

the flight an illusion,

when the best she knows

is to swoon within the bounds of reason.

The cage of the mind

and the bars of thoughts that hold it around

are much less perceived a problem

than the dreams which can be just as real,

as her not knowing the abilities to reach them.