The Shape of Wings
Another day spent
in my throbbing head.
This day, a tightening noose,
a smothering sheath of
white, sterile gauze
once loose.
Moments I dread
are swirling around
in my head.
(I close my eyes and fly away.)
Minute by minute, it’s here,
light flashing, thunder crashing,
too alive.
I wait for tomorrow to arrive
but night hangs. I feel
It's rapid breathing.
Head down, haunch heavy,
hunched and heaving,
it stays and stays
and will not go away.
Counting seconds,
I clutch the cumbrous clock
willing its face
to unmask, its hands
to complete their task,
but here I lay
still tethered to this day.
(I close my eyes and fly away.)
I am not the anchor,
not the purple fade,
stitched skin pulling,
lips parting in pain.
Finally, I close my eyes
and fly away.
Do not come again
to a body waiting
for the grave,
this vanishing
tangled on the vine.
Be free, fly away...
I am a blue bird
rising high above.
I am perched in treetops,
the turtle dove.
I am the shape of wings
in the air, I become.
I fly over a hurting world,
my suffering, and time.
I am folklore, a fairy tale
on high.
Come with me, be free,
feel the breeze
or watch me fly away.
Written 5/12/22
For: Shapeshifters and Shapeshifting Contest
Copyright © Rhonda Johnson-Saunders | Year Posted 2022
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