Solitude

Solitude A crested lark takes flight to the window, Its façade, the simplest grace and flick of the wrist, Upon the piano, in a pirouette of feeling, Its symbol, the imperial freedom of flight. It wears a rosette, bound fast in its beak, And I rise from the single room storehouse, The bold, arulean flame of a phoenix caged. And it rises in the yard, the slumber shaken from its eyes, And I run, the phoenix in an arulean flame of a destined love And its imperial freedom, sears my eyes, the rhythm revived, And I am living, once again, a caged bird freed. The bird that has lay in wait two years, During and after a war, Every day bound in its dungeon, Singing futile hymns to the wind, and in turning, Revived by the endeared face of her true love, Revived, enflamed, once again and burning.