A wisp of sound scatters through the thick air,
In tatters, it climbs itself into my head and nestles,
A bird soul evicted of its body, blind and screaming,
Its skin torn red and raw and too alive;
My arms turn useless, as it stretches out and out
And finds my legs, large and dumb and too much,
But it will do, it will do as it continues to stretch and
Stretch in search of feathers and dust. There is a pause
At my hair; it runs with the wind and briefly its hands
Outstretch to its hair and contemplates a familiar lustre,
Black and shining and soft, but no strain of limbs come
And in frustration, pulls like plant vines.
It continues to search and search, but there is no freedom
Written in my back, no wings outstretched to the wild skies.
And no matter how much it beat its sharp little beak,
There was no flight to be found.