A bird I could be

I wished once

To soar like a bird.

A bird which

knew of everything. 

For the rest of the wings

learned to follow

only these feathers 

all their lives.

Yet why is it?

That this bird alone

thinking on a branch

watched with this hole

forming inside,

As the feathers which

imitated a house of cards

sat on weak grounds, 

only to leave their feathers

as they gradually touched 

the mouth of a hound.

Oh, this bird thought

maybe this hole

so tall,

means I have a voice,

after all. 

This poem is about: 
Our world

Comments

Need to talk?

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741