To the bird born within a cage,
wings are a burden
worse than the bars
that hold her within.
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.
Caught in the nightmare of progress
Smoking up the soul in the name of pace
Losing sleep from the eyes long rid of the vision
of what life could be, just being herself.
The vulnerability, the tenderness
that once defined who she is,
are now vices too refined
to be mentioned or missed.
The doors to escape,
the ways to unmake
and to trace back each step
are still open,
open to embrace and become.
But the legs have long lost the longing to flee,
freed of the shackles of her own making,
as the mind keeps inventing new reasons each blink,
to stay trapped within the mire of logic.
Fettered fierce by ambitions
that are the only solace
to the soul wandering
dune to desert, ceaseless.
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