Fly, Baby, Fly
broken spirit and wings,
this bird no longer sings.
forgotten are the days of intoxicating flight,
replaced with fears of another fight.
this was a day much like any other,
but this time the lightening force of his punches created thunder.
through watery eyes and rain-stained glass, she began to see.
as she molted transparent skin and grew thick feathers, she prepared to flee.
like embracing the change of seasons, she embraced new insight.
she learned her own husband made her wings less bright.
visions of the sun on her back as she soared above the situation
gave her the perspective to no longer tolerate victimization.
you see, this bird can't be caged; her wings are too bright.
her mind bends bars as she exercises foresight.
i know because she sings to our kids every night.
fly, baby, fly
Copyright © Devinand Nicholson | Year Posted 2007
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