Despite the fact my heart will thump,
or wind will whip, or trees will creak,
I'll ignore the sounds and voices and shouts.
The people are loud and my head is desperate,
so I'll muffle the noises and listen intently.
It's not a chime anymore, it's a whisper.
The idea of it is gentle and warm, but accompanied by fluttering.
Escapism is a whisper, and the jailer is a shout.
Freedom and wings go hand and hand; my back is bare.
I'll make the wings myself,
I've done it before.
Copyright © Nikki Robinson | Year Posted 2022
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