Birds of a feather flock together, but what if there’s only one? Stuck in the wind, too much or too little, despair, yet hope, belittle. The bird flies alone, alone in his gusts. The freedom of air, the sky, and sunshine, remain barred behind panels of glass and metal, trapping me inside. Melting, floating, the sorrow of tomorrow.
Floating then, flying free, the birds move on, migrate without me. A broken wing distresses the heart, knowing the aspiration of flying has to start. Or part.
But what if it happens to me?
Wing fixed, heart remains. Distressed, lifelessness.
Not good enough to fly, but are you?
Fly with me, save me from myself. The heart of the bird is rough, bearing buildings. Walls and halls, ceilings and attics. Cemeteries, ashes, he dies.
Stuck in a shade of silver, flying alone in thought, no freedom. Not okay, but fine to sight. First to bear the relentless winds of the Northern sky, the heat of the Southern. The cold of the future, or the warmth of death.
Floating alone, finding a way. Outside looking in, wanting escape. Never going to make it home.
Circles and dots, spirals and knots. Taunting, pressure, breaking me.
Breaking and broken, breaking free. Whispers fight, raging reassuringly, saying pain, pain, pain. Veins bulging, releasing red love. Love of hatred, love of what’s right. You don’t know what’s right. Frustrated, failing, falling again. Broken.
Trying to fly, but they migrate without me.
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