the green scent of earth, alive, and the clear howl of the wind
filled her breast with the unquellable urge to sing
a melody bubbled in her throat, and a single
note rang from her entire being, sustained
...
her music was hers alone
but not anymore
the high, pure note had ruptured something,
started a frenzy in her heart she couldn't name
she felt a panic
vulnerable, hunted
and she soared before you could blink
before you could register the echo
before you could remark "my, what a lovely song"
...
she felt the loss soon thereafter
for it had truly been a pretty note, and now
there was no one to tell her so
...
(how fickle the heart of the bluebird)
YOU ARE READING
Original Poetry
PoetryI write about a "she" person feeling all these things. It feels like I'm telling a fictional story, which feels worlds better to believe.
