boredom grasps my windpipe
until my breaths are low and my vision is blurred

you blame it on the wings that i was born with
on the heels of my feet
constantly flitting, ready to take me off to my next destination

how do i explain to them that i must sit still
in a faux leather chair
and write e-mails, plan meetings, coordinate volunteers?

my heart it cries for want of something bigger,
or perhaps something so small that i will be lost there alone
with nothing but the wings on my feet to keep me company

a tiny isle just for us, where we can flit above the tree tops
down into deep river canyons
floating inches above our mirrored reflections

but then i'll catch my eyes and see the sorrow that still lingers
and the sad excuse i have for a mouth will droop
low and heavy, like i'm carrying pebbles behind my lips

so the conundrum begins all over again
must i never stay in one place?
must i always want for something more?

my wings are mum and my lips motionless