200820
those same fingers that stroked my wings
were the first to tenderly trim them
into a picturesque edge,
perfect, pure, unblemished.
until your hand, creator, tossed my bones
into the sky, and you expected me to fly
but with clipped wings and graceful lines,
i could not take to the air.
the impact is sudden, and while
my feathers may be dusty with sorrow,
i find that i will have nowhere left to fall.
i build a nest.
and i wait.
heal.
YOU ARE READING
river, run wild
Randomtales of liberation, of discovery, of the joys in life and the triumphs, big and small. themes of religion, deconversion, queerness.
