He drew paintings with his words;
ones that would sell millions to
buy freedom for chained birds.
It was a luxury I couldn't afford.
And so he asked for these things in return:
the feathers in my wings,
the flowers in my spring,
and thus he cut my chains.
I began to fly, but always, always
in the company of my savior's orchestra;
bound by its dead symphony.
I did not lose my chains, I clipped my wings.
I was caged by the screech of my silence.
***
YOU ARE READING
Moonlit
PoetryThese are thoughts born under the moon's glow; when sheep has run out, and sleep's a child playing hide and seek with the mind. Some moonlit verses from a pillow-hugging girl. *PTY | 20 [03.08.17]
