I am a bird
in cage.
These bars are internal,
they are my whims of winglessness.
My soul is beaten and chewed by these iron bars.
I could fly once; I recall that
in the memory of these limbs,
these shrivelled wings.
I see skies wet in my hallucinations.
There is no riddance, no rescue
for the firmament
bursting out of these bars.
The texture of sky is my blues.
I see skies as a cage
without my wings,
like a pillows
brimful of feathers
in the absence of a resting head,
in the vacuum of reveries and dreams.
Space is a meaningless void
in the bereavement of soaring birds,
an undrawn canvass,
a bow-less arrow,
creeping on the surface,
in the depthless world,
without rainbows
dozing
on
my wings.
